Carpe Regnum
by Danville Doom Patrol
Summary: Lies, love, and the meddling of a powerful goddess come together in a  life-shattering mix when a new world order, run by two unlikely con  men, rises from the ashes of a fallen kingdom.
1. Chapter 1

"I make an offering like this?" Heinz asked, throat dry.

"In theory, yes," replied the priestess, walking out of the room. "There tends to be another condition though."

"What other condition?" he shouted after her, fear trickling down his spine.

"Your soul, silly," called the priestess, and slammed the door shut behind her.

The temple was incredibly stuffy – Heinz had heard that there were furnaces constantly at work beneath the rooms, and it certainly felt like it. The smoke coming from the lanterns on the wall did nothing to improve the stagnant atmosphere. His clothes clung to him, sweat patches impeding every move. He struggled to kneel before the altar with the single flame rising, and breathed out, a futile attempt to remove any trace of fear from his person.

He swore that he could hear the knife shine when he removed it from the sheath.

"I ask for your blessing, goddess, and I wish to bargain," he recanted; sweat dripping from his forehead onto the exposed blade. He rose achingly and stumbled closer to the altar, stretching out his arm.

He fervently hoped he had not cut too deeply the instant the blade sliced through the outstretched forearm, aged blood bubbling to the surface. Wincing, he turned his arm over and directed the blood straight into the flame. The trickle produced was unsatisfactorily slow and weak-looking, but he somehow knew it would be accepted. He shuffled back and resumed his pained bow, wrapping a pre-prepared bandage around his arm.

The flame burned through a small metal grate on the altar – the blood dripped through the holes, a hiss signalling contact with the flame. The burning symbol of the goddess' power flickered briefly, before turning read.

"Your blessing," he repeated numbly, feeling an unpleasantly warm sensation travel down his legs.

The smoke from the lanterns crept outward, like the tentacles of some ancient undersea horror long since forgotten by man. With agonising slowness, a new cloud of smoke drew up from the grate, lit blood-red by the fire. It stung his eyes, and he felt himself reach up to wipe away tears before they ran down his craggy features.

The red smoke suddenly lunged forward, completely obscuring his vision. He moved his head quickly from side to side before realising that the rest of the smoke had seeped past his notice. He instantly made to cover his mouth, but realised it was unnecessary – he could breathe perfectly well, defying all logic. He instinctively made to touch the floor, blindly feeling his surroundings. There weren't any. The floor was gone.

Something moved in the smoke.

**Heinz Doofenshmirtz. This is your name. A stupid name for a stupid man.**

Heinz felt himself freeze up with fear, but his pre-practice words fell out of his mouth. "Goddess, I ask for your blessing, and I wish to bargain."

The voice was not recognisably female, but certainly not male either. It was the voice of a child, aged without gender.

**You have come wishing to bargain. Such fascinations your kind hold. I suppose you want to rule? **

"Well, yes, I-!"

**Rule What? There is nothing to rule. The desire to dominate is a curious human notion. What do you wish to control? A business? An unwilling mate?**

"The kingdom," he squeaked, as something approached.

**I have heard your plea. Allow me to present myself.**

The smoke became thicker before him, coiling into a black column. Although he saw none, the heat of flames passed by his face. With a burst of fire, the smoke column dispersed, and a young woman stepped out of the emptiness.

She was entirely naked, pacing without self-consciousness, but the more Heinz looked, the more he doubted whether she could truly be classed as naked. Or even female. The genderless woman examined him carefully, golden eyes reflecting non-existent fires. She moved strangely, and every so often something much larger would flicker in the smoke behind her.

**What do you know of the Fire Cult belief system?**

"I, I know that they only worship one god, and everything else is forfeit before Her judgement."

**This is what they believe. It is incorrect. I do not judge. There is no afterlife. They think that I provide one for the just, and one for the wrong. Right and wrong are human concepts and I do not care for either. The Cult are blind to this, like all religions are, and I know, for most religions worship me in one way or another.**

Heinz writhed as the woman leaned in closer, and the smoke shifted to reveal corpses, intertwined and lying in a mass grave. Most of them were children, empty eye sockets gazing up with him. He desperately tried to shut his eyes, but the image was still there. He made to vomit, but all that came was the sound. The smallest child moved suddenly, a crackle of wind on dead leaves. The mound of bodies ignited, the fire spreading more swiftly than would have been possible in the real world. As the charred bodies cracked and fell apart, the woman spoke again.

**I have been Kali, Agni, Vesta, Svarog, Loki and Belenus. I appeared to Moses as a burning bush. I ignited London, laid waste to Sodom and Gomorrah, burned Rome. I am the only god, little man, and I do not care whether you live or die. All that matters is my own amusement.**

Heinz flinched. Was he being refused?

"I can offer my soul in return-!"

**You have no soul to give! It is the notion of superstitious primates unable to grasp the concept of death!**

The woman suddenly calmed and smiled, cracks in her face appearing and revealing magma bubbling beneath the surface. She raised her hand and laid it on Heinz' face.

**Behold. The Mark of Cain.**

Heinz screamed as the flesh of his forehead burned and melted under her touch, the magma-like substance flowing from her body into his.

**Humans are repetitive. You, my wonderful professor, shall break a monotonous cycle. You amuse me, and you shall have the means to take your beloved kingdom. But if I am to become bored, I shall use you for my own purposes. **

**Go now, and remake the world as you see fit.**

**I will be watching.**

**You will not be judged after death, but know now that I judge you in life.**

The flames burst forth from her face, engulfing her entire body. Thick wrappings of smoke descended, obscuring the goddess from view, and Heinz turned and ran.

He awoke in the stifling room, trembling. He sat up slowly, eyes darting around the room. Cautiously, he raised his hand to his forehead. There was no pain, but a single thin horizontal red line ran across his forehead. He had been marked by the goddess.

* * *

><p>She always came.<p>

He sat in the smoke filled room, inhaling deeply. His lungs had long since become accustomed to the smell of Her smoke that he burned constantly.

"Blessed be those who know Her will," he whispered, exhaling a bit of smoke as he dragged the blade over his flesh, leaving a deep mark on it.

"Blessed be those who know She blesses no one," the blade bit deep into his forearm and he dragged it up to his elbow, before holding the gash over the flame, allowing his blood to drip into it before holding it closer and cauterizing the wound. The poppies burned, releasing the smoke which he breathed in, taking in as much as he could before exhaling. It left him drowsy, and he knew that he was at his best condition to meet her when he was drowsy. He fell to the ground, his eyes twitching behind closed eyelids.

When he opened his eyes again, he lay in a dome, the center of the dome inverted to hold Her. She hadn't noticed him just yet, or she chose not to pay attention to him yet. It was most likely the latter, he decided.

At first, She didn't turn as she spoke to him. Instead, she slowly turned, and he could hear the gears and sprockets clanking as Her chassis turned, her single glowing eye contracting to see him clearly.

**I HAVE BEEN KALI, AGNI, VEST- OH. IT'S YOU.**

The man looked upon Her eternal glory. Today She had decided to meet him as a machine of some sort. Of which kind, he knew not.

**WRONG AGAIN. I DID NOT CHOOSE THIS FORM. YOUR FOOLISH MIND MERELY COULD NOT HANDLE SUCH THAT I WOULD BE ANY OTHER FORM DURING THIS MEETING. **

She paused, even for the smallest of seconds, before She continued. The man knew that she would be smiling maliciously if her form had a mouth.

**IT WOULD BE SO VERY EASY TO SHATTER YOUR TINY MORTAL MIND RIGHT NOW. SPEAK BEFORE I DECIDE TO DO SO.**

The man smiled at her before speaking, "My Lady, merely say the word and I shall provide for you entertainment. If my insanity is what makes you happy, let it be so."

He figured she would have raised an eyebrow, if she had them.

**YOU WHO HAVE BEEN POSSIBLY MY MOST LOYAL OF SERVANTS, WHY HAVE YOU CALLED THIS MEETING BETWEEN THE TWO OF US?**

The man fidgeted slightly, but showed no fear to Her- he had long since purged fear from his body, as it was only another emotion that got in the way of his duties to Her- and spoke clearly, "My Lady, I have heard that you have another servant who you have granted a wish to."

**WORD TRAVELS FAST, I SEE. I ONLY JUST ORDERED HIM TO GO FORTH AND REMAKE THE WORLD. HOW DID THIS COME TO YOUR KNOWLEDGE AND WHY DO YOU ASK SUCH A QUESTION?**

The man continued, "I wished to see what had become of him. May I inquire where he resides?"

**YOU WISH TO ENTERTAIN ME WITH HIS DEATH.**

"I will only do what you tell me to do, my Lady. If our duel would entertain you, then it shall be what I shall do for you," the man replied. He had had many a conversation where he would say that to Her. It would usually end with Her sending him to kill the servant as a test of both his own skill and of the other servant's skill. Not long ago, he had killed all the priestesses within a local fire cult due to their disillusionment with Her. It had been a lengthy and bloody fight, but She had favored him and only him when the priestesses fell to their knees and prayed for a better life after their current one.

**I SEE. FOR NOW, I HAVE DECIDED FOR YOU TO MERELY WATCH OVER HIM, BE IT IN SECRET OR OPENLY. SHOULD HIS WISH BE GRANTED, THEN I SHALL FAVOR YOU WITH A FIGHT AGAINST HIM. IF NOT, THEN YOU SHALL KILL HIM AND HIS RIVALS. NO MATTER WHAT, THOUGH, I BEAR NO LOVE FOR THE FIRE CULT IN THAT AREA. ANNIHILATE THEM IF THE CHANCE PRESENTS ITSELF.**

The man dropped to his knees, tears streaming from his face, "I thank you, my Lady. You are most generous to allow for me to entertain you. I shall do exactly as you say, nothing less."

**REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE MAN, AND THAT SHOULD YOUR TESTAMENTS TO ME PROVE FALSE, I SHALL NOT BE SO MERCIFUL AS TO GIVE YOU THE LEISURE OF CONTACTING ME. I SHALL ENTER YOUR MIND AND WATCH AS IT BOILS AND POURS OUT OF YOUR EARS. FOR NOW, HEED MY COMMANDS. FIND HEINZ DOOFENSHMIRTZ. AID HIM, AND PERHAPS I SHALL GRANT YOU YOUR OWN WISH. AND DESTROY THE IRREVERANT FOOLS WHO BELIEVE THAT I JUDGE AFTER DEATH.**

The man awakened, coughing and sputtering, before walking over to the bowl beside his altar to Her and proceeding to vomit for the next fifteen minutes. Her meetings were never without consequences, he knew well. She had told him as much once he had finally expressed his undying loyalty to her during one of their meetings. Convening with one so powerful as Her would always have repercussions with it.

In her meetings with him, she always spoke of no afterlife, but she also always spoke of granting his only wish: to serve her for all eternity. Walking over to the wall in the room, he carved yet another tally into the brick, marking his tenth year in devout service to Her. He stepped out of the room before gathering up his guns and knives. They were not his, but weapons She had shown him in a vision that he must use. The revolvers were especially important, for he had used them recently in the execution of the Chief Priestess of the local Fire Cult, one who had asked for mercy after death.

As Frank Monogram- Major of the order She had formed for him and him alone- left the building, he stopped, turned, and fired a single shot, killing the final priestess of the Fire Cult in the Cult's building. He then turned and left. Whoever he was, Heinz Doofenshmirtz would find himself in the company of Her personal entertainer very soon.

* * *

><p>The roughly hewn wooden door was ajar—indication enough that it would be permissible to enter the room. Nevertheless, the young acolyte was hesitant to set foot across the threshold. She drew upon every ounce of boldness within herself and, holding her head high, pushed open the door.<p>

The foyer to the private quarters of the High Priestess was dim, lit only by the enormous fire blazing in the stone fireplace that could have easily fit every occupant of the temple. Though she had been inside the sitting room on select few previous occasions, the beauty of the room—a far cry from the rest of the temple—never failed to take her breath away. Elaborate motifs were carved into the stone surrounding the fireplace: licks of fire and tendrils of smoke that would have looked real save for their granite facade. Heavy tapestries draped the walls, each depicting a vivid but morbid scene of townships aflame. And in the middle of the room, parallel to the fireplace, sat a red velvet chaise longue, upon which reclined the High Priestess herself.

The young woman—and she was young, given her position of high standing with their deity—was stretched back languidly, the thin tube of an opium pipe held between her full lips. She looked so supremely unperturbed by her surroundings that the acolyte began to doubt whether her entrance had even been noticed. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, though, than the heavily-lidded eyes of the prone woman fluttered open and immediately locked upon the new arrival.

"Katie," High Priestess Isabella stated, her voice startlingly clear given that she had seemed near-comatose not moments before. It was neither a greeting nor a reprimand; a mere statement of fact. Nevertheless, the young acolyte felt the hairs on the back of her neck stiffen in fright.

Resisting an urge to wring her hands, Katie met the eyes of the priestess with what she hoped to be calm. The temperature of the room was making her sweat, but she knew that to wipe the moisture from her face would be an admission of weakness. They were a Fire Cult. Heat was supposed to be of no consequence to any of them. Startlingly, the priestess appeared unaffected by the sweltering heat. Perhaps her connection with the great Solara was to be credited for it.

"Your flagrancy," Katie began, certain that she would have to choose her words carefully, "there has been a delay in the delivery of," Katie peered at the opium pipe, knowing full well how empty it must be, "of our amenities." She decided to wait for a reaction before proceeding with any details of the "delay."

Isabella's eyes closed once more, this time with a small cringe. When they finally reopened, she slipped from the chaise lounge and stood tall, peering at Katie. The even gaze being sent her way was almost enough to wither the acolyte on the spot. Nevertheless, Katie maintained visual contact, attempting to subtly blink the sweat from her eyes. Even in midriff top and cropped pants, every inch of her body felt like it was smouldering.

"Delayed," Isabella repeated. Katie noticed the velvety eyes of the priestess dart back to the pipe, and she could swear she saw a trace of alarm. In a moment, though, it was gone, and she questioned whether it had been there in the first place.

"Yes, your flagrancy." Katie gave a brief, respectful dip of her head. "Master Flynn has yet to procure our goods, and we have been unable to establish any sort of contact with him—"

"Flynn?" The name came out sour as it rolled off of Isabella's tongue. "If I know anything about that conniving little weasel, then I highly doubt that he has had any difficulty procuring the goods. What I would believe is that he had taken our generous payment and made off with it." Her face twisted into a scowl. It was astounding that someone could bear such fierce beauty with such hate in their expression. Despite her fear of the High Priestess—or, at the very least, of the divine power at her disposal—Katie's body could not help but flush with an entirely different sort of heat.

"That is... also likely," Katie amended, praying that her current state of weakness would slip by the attention of the priestess. She chewed her bottom lip as she watched Isabella slink around to the other side of the couch, the elegantly woven layers of the priestess' skirt swirling about her pale, slender thighs. When she stopped, she was barely a foot from Katie. The acolyte felt her breath catch in her throat as the priestess placed a finger under her chin and lifted it to face her.

"No more waiting around for him to come to us," Isabella hissed. Her breath carried the sweetly pungent aroma of the opium. "Send someone out. Gretchen, perhaps. She should be able to take care of the thief with little to no difficulty." Her fingers cupped Katie's chin, her grip tighter than was comfortable. "As for you..."

It felt as if a cold stone of fear had dropped into her stomach. Realizing that she was in a very precarious position as the messenger of bad news, Katie suddenly tasted the bitter terror of a threat to her very existence. Unwilling though she was to gaze into the molten eyes of the one who could reduce her to cinders with only a simple request to Solara, Katie could not tear her vision away. She was only reassured by the fact that she would die looking at the achingly lovely young woman before her. It would be pleasure enough before the release of death.

To Katie's surprise, the hand holding her chin turned to gently stroke her cheek. Her heart now nearly tripping over itself in mixed dread and unbidden hope for forgiveness, Katie closed her eyes, prepared to meet whatever fate was about to befall her.

In the next moment, she could feel the light tickle of hot breath on her neck and the ghosting sensation of lips near her ear. "Katie, darling," Isabella breathed, every soft syllable flowing like liquid fire, "the next time you barge into my quarters, ensure that you are bearing information that will make me smile. You know how much I dislike being upset. But if I am kept happy—well..." Her tongue flicked out and ran up the edge of Katie's ear, sending a cascade of mind-numbing shivers up and down the latter's spine. "...everyone will benefit." Her fingers rapped against Katie's cheek affectionately as she withdrew. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, your flagrancy," Katie managed to whisper, still reeling.

Isabella smiled toothily. "Excellent." She spun on her heel and drifted away, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Her staff was leaning on the chaise lounge, and she took it, lighting the sun-shaped talisman at the end in the flames still swirling in the fireplace. Not removing her gaze from the torch, she flicked a hand in Katie's direction. "Go find Gretchen. Inform her that she has been ordered to find the thief Flynn and acquire what is rightfully ours by any means necessary." Her countenance grew dark, and the flames at the tip of the staff grew brighter, fire caressing the priestess' raven hair in a way that would have been dangerous to anyone not protected by Solara's divine grace. "And have her return Flynn to the temple. Alive would be preferable."

Katie swallowed back the return of the knot of fear in her throat, and she gave a quick nod. "Yes, your flagrancy," she repeated. "Right away." With no desire to give the priestess any reason to repeal her lenience, she turned to leave.

"In nomine spiritus flamma," murmured Isabella, and Katie, unbidden, turned so that she may echo their simple prayer. She nearly gave a cry at seeing the staff ignite into an explosion of flames, which soon engulfed the young woman in the middle of the room. The acolyte was a half-step forward before she noticed that Isabella appeared untouched by the fire. Though Katie could hardly withstand the staggering temperature from feet away, the priestess did not seem to be in any sort of agony. Her eyes merely glared unseeingly at the talisman on her staff, her mortal spirit lost in the conflagration of a fury fuelled by the combustible temper of their omnipresent goddess.

"In nomine spiritus flamma," Katie choked before stumbling back toward the door, ensuring to close it fully behind her as she left the room. The corridor, though perpetually warm from the furnaces constantly roaring in the temple's underbelly, was cooler relative to the priestess' sitting room. The flickering light of the torches lining the stone walls was a welcome relief from the glare of the inferno surrounding the priestess.

Both hands still pressed to the rough wooden surface of the entrance, Katie was a moment in regaining the strength in her trembling frame. It was unlike her to be weak—members of the Fire Cult were inducted for multiple reasons; unwavering faith in Solara, dexterity, and cunning being amongst them—but if there was anyone who could bring Katie, supplicating, to her knees, it was the High Priestess. There was no one else who could instil such a vortex of intimidation and desire into her very soul.

If her fellow acolyte, Gretchen, did manage to find Flynn and have him returned to the temple... Katie didn't allow herself to think of him in the vengeful clutches of the High Priestess. And despite his crimes against them, Katie found herself praying to Solara for mercy against the young man's soul. However, with what little knowledge she possessed of Solara's true nature or power, let alone how it would be channelled by their leader, Katie knew in her still-racing heart that it was unlikely that mercy would be granted.

* * *

><p>"Ready?"<p>

"Mmhm."

"Good, break a leg and all that."

It was the desperation that always struck Phineas. After all, people were stupid in every rung of society, but rich people tended to be more cautious with their money. In the slums, they were just as suspicious, but they were so desperate to escape that they would try anything. They were willing to believe, if only for five minutes. Phineas loved them for it.

He slackened his stance, lowering his shoulders and setting his jaw in the gawking expression of a middle-aged worker. His usual waistcoat and trousers had been replaced by overalls. He had given himself a comical little paunch, and a purposefully grimy stubble. He looked like one of them, and that was important. They would never trust a man in a suit.

Ferb, his often silent partner, had elected to something similar, reluctantly replacing his bowler hat with a flat cap and wore loose clothing that could have been pulled from a charity shops, if there happened to be any charity shops.

"Name?" asked Phineas suddenly, even though they had rehearsed already.

"Cardones," said Ferb, flashing a fake identification card.

"Capital," murmured Phineas, peering around the corner into the alleyway. "And I'm one Cyrus

"Ironside, steel worker."

He drummed his fingers on the handle of the cart reassuringly. The stench of the place, the desperation was directly in his face. He wondered if he was getting a little too excited with his work these days.

Then again, he thought, it was their fault for being poor. The system was laissez-faire, could they not understand? They certainly did not help themselves by breeding like rabbits. No self-control, he concluded. But then again, Ferb was like that too.

Phineas moved on the spot, ready to burst out into the alleyway and attract customers. Something gave him a little pause.

"Did you hear about the Luddites over at the mines?" he asked.

Ferb shook his head and tapped his watch.

"I know, I know, we have to get going. Still, it would seem Albert has a rather heavy-handed way of dealing with protestors. With more peelers on the street, things will be getting harder."

Instead of waiting for a reply, Phineas pushed the cart around from behind the pub and into the alleyway. With the pull of one ornate switch, the cart twitched and groaned, opening to the sounds of gears and cogs, and their produce stood for all to see.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" shouted Phineas, jumping onto the side of the cart. "Boys and girls! Are you tired of working incessantly, never once given the real reward for the sweat of your brow?"

"Sweat of your brow?" Ferb sniggered.

"Shush. Well we have the answer! I am Cyrus, fellow dock worker and once in a very similar position to you! As you see my associate indicate, with our products, brought down in price just for you, the luxuries of the upper classes can be yours!"

A small group of workers, grimy from a long shift, began to filter into the alleyway, followed by several housewives who nervously glanced around, not wishing to be seen buying. Phineas smirked inwardly. They disgusted themselves.

"I there any man among you who has looked at an opium den and thought, 'I deserve that!'? Wages are poor, I know. You have families to feed. Well, what if a certain gentleman had procured some opium for a low price."

"Wos at fancy word mean then?" said one of the workers.

Phineas briefly allowed a flicker of annoyance to cross his face. If he was using more educated words, they might begin to lose interest. Dim understanding. Quick tempers, slow minds, he repeated in his head.

"Ah, my apologies, I often think myself very smart good sir, when in reality, I heard the word from a magistrate."

The men grinned and chuckled, picturing Phineas in the dock and pleading his case with the flair of showmanship.

"But perhaps, if you wish for a stimulant, rather than the slow bliss of opium, I can interest you in this." He held up a small vial. "Straight from the coca leaves of South America, this small but powerful little beauty is called cocaine. You'll be a faster talker than me, I'll wager, and you'll be charming girls left and right. You could make a Fire Cult priestess fall for you with this!"

Phineas had learned the word 'cocaine' in the newspaper. The substance in the vial was, like all of his produce, cheap watered-down mimicry of the sort that would make the shadiest black market ashamed.

"Or some cheaper relief, for when the stress is too much, how about laudanum?"

He heard some approving murmurs from the growing crowd. Laudanum was prescribed by doctors, so it _had _to be good. If Phineas' concoction could be described as laudanum at all.

Phineas heard a familiar children's skipping rhyme start up near the front of the pub. Two girls were playing, oblivious to the dealings behind them. The rhyme gave Phineas warm happy feelings every time he heard it.

"Up the close and down the stair, a deal with the devil for a dare, Ferb's the muscle, Flynn's the thief, Isabella's the girl who buys the beef… Up the close…"

The names 'Phineas and Ferb' had become a popular slogan to describe unsolved crimes. Phineas was quite pleased with his own infamy – the people believed them to be lovable outlaw characters. In reality, only the cons and tricks were their handiwork, but Phineas was happy to take other people's credit.

"I'll take some of that loud stuff!" A voice cried, and Phineas snapped back to reality.

"Of course, good sir! Mr Cardones, the laudanum for this fine gentleman!"

The grubby men exchanged goods – as the coins jingled in Ferb's grasp, and the other man pocketed the vial, the crowd seemed to accept the salesmen as legitimate. Within seconds, several were shouting orders, waving pouches of silver at the man on the makeshift stage. Phineas stepped back a little and allowed Ferb to conduct the actual business. He took in the desperation like they would take in their knock-off opium. They were utterly dependent on him for this moment.

He realised why the girls had been skipping and singing that particular song.

The sound of a silver coin being flicked to the girls was almost inaudible over the crowd, but the squeaking of leather and uniformed marching soon quietened the people. Dressed in the black uniforms of Albert's police, the three men made their way through a swiftly parting sea of people. The skipping girls ran off, giggling.

The officer took off his hat and smiled. His pointed, harsh face was marked by a duelling scar on his right cheekbone. Phineas heard Ferb breathe in sharply, and knew why – the officer looked remarkably like Phineas, down the sharp blue eyes and face ready to curve into a smile.

"Do I have the honour of addressing our two roguish legends themselves?" He had a slight Prussian accent.

Phineas took a step down from the cart.

"Is there a reason for this? My associate and I have a permit to sell."

"Albert does not take kindly to drugs," yawned the officer, waving away the glaringly forged permit. "Besides, I highly doubt you are who you claim to be. You are really Phineas Flynn, are you not?"

"Right, I'll be Frederick the Great next. I have the right to ask for identification, I believe."

"How very amusing," the officer flashed a golden badge. "Thyssen. Thaddeus Thyssen and your new General Director of Police. In advance, you must forgive my actions if you are not in fact Phineas and Ferb. I believe in a hands-on approach to crime, however, and I need to get Phineas and Ferb off the street. Take them."

Phineas swore as the policemen advanced. There was little point in resisting – they had swords, and Phineas knew for certain that the young Prussian knew how to use one. Thyssen really was very similar to him. Perhaps they were related in some way. Ferb shot his business partner a glare.

"I am Ironside, this is my partner Cardones. There are no criminals called Phineas and Ferb, it's an urban legend!"

"That may be true," said Director Thyssen. "If you are innocent, believe me, the paperwork will be filled out."

The brief flourish of the hand from Thyssen was an over-dramatic gesture to any other observer, but Phineas was fascinated. Thyssen had the exact same dramatic flair, the pointed features, everything.

Phineas felt the inkling of an idea. The long con.

Most of the crowd had begun to disperse – several shuffled out of the alley and hung back, watching curiously. A cloaked figure moved between them, and the people reared back as if burned. Thyssen turned, curiously watching the figure approach. A grimace marred his features as he recognised the dress of a Fire Cult acolyte.

"Disgusting as he is, young Ironside here speaks the truth. The High Priestess would have words with him. I suggest you three scuttle home."

Phineas tried not to outwardly laugh as Thyssen's mouth opened and shut, resembling the world's most militaristic fish. The other two men had wisely moved to the side.

"Albert shall hear of this!" The officer spluttered eventually, seeing his newfound power subverted just days into his job.

"Give him my blessings," said the acolyte, a voice of sugar laced with cyanide.

Thyssen moved a hand towards his sword, but seemed to think better of it and stepped aside, gesturing contemptuously towards Phineas and Ferb. The priestess took the keys, more aggressively than was really necessary, and removed the cuffs from the briefly incarcerated conmen. Phineas smiled his thanks, but cursed inwardly. Out of the frying pan… he thought.

The acolyte stood defiantly until the officers had slunk off into the pub, and the crowd nervously took the hint and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The Fire Cult member swivelled on the spot.

"There were some Maharajah scouts in that crowd. Baljeet does not entertain competition."

"Competition, sister? Why, my associate Cardones and I are but poor businessmen…"

"And poor actors," she snapped, her superior smile visible beneath the hood. Lenses flashed.

"Ah. Gretchen."

"Hurm, you show fear now. You were hoping for someone lenient perhaps? Katie? Oh, wave to Adyson for me."

Beginning to sweat heavily, Phineas let his eyes travel up to the roof of the dilapidated pub. A second robed figure stopped aiming down the sights of her crossbow to give a short wave. Phineas heard Ferb swallow cautiously, as if any movement would set off the trigger. Which to be fair, probably would.

"You are very popular these days gentlemen," said Gretchen, leaning casually on the cart. "Those Prussian officers… If the Fire Cult had greater influence, things would be vastly improved, I assure you. So the police and the Maharajah, interesting. And Ferb, I do believe one man is calling for your head."

Despite the circumstances, Phineas could not help but sigh. "What did you do now Ferb?"

The other man shrugged, but his expression was sheepish, with a hint of pride.

"I may have had… knowledge of his wife. And daughter. And son. And by chance, his mother, but that was an interesting coincide…"

"Yes, yes, wonderful," said Gretchen. "And now, Phineas Flynn, also known as Ironside, also known as Django Brown, also known as Doctor Phileas Fogg, we come to our disagreement, miniscule in comparison."

"Look," sighed Phineas, "you have to understand my position as a…"

"Hurm, you misunderstand. I am only here to escort you."

On the roof, Adyson whistled, and a horse trotted onto the street before the pub, the heavy wheels of its carriage rattling across the cobbles. Phineas and Ferb went very pale very quickly. He could talk his way out of this perhaps… Bargain? Phineas needed to vomit.

Suddenly, an idea was engendered. It was not much to go on, but if he was going to meet the High Priestess, it would be better than nothing. He messed his red hair, shaking the intentional dampness from his person. Smiling with fake confidence, he applied his trademark goggles, and unhooked his waistcoat from the cart, intending to change in the carriage. Ferb followed his lead obediently, reaching for his bowler hat.

"Hoping to dress to impress?" Gretchen sneered.

Phineas waited until he was ready to step into the fire-red carriage before replying.

"Not at all, my compassionate friend. If I must have words with Isabella, I would rather face my end as myself."

He really hoped Isabella was reasonable. And that her goddess was not a vengeful one.

* * *

><p><em>The problem with power<em>, mused Baljeet, _is that there's always someone trying to take it from you._

He watched his odalisques playing in the fountain of the inner court without really seeing them. Six lovely young women splashed and laughed, their wet clothing clinging to their skins and leaving very little to the imagination, but his mind was lost in memories.

The Rai family had moved to the city from their rural hometown in the colonies seeking a better life. What they had found was not much better and in some ways worse. Baljeet's parents had worked themselves to death in the textile factories – literally in his mother's case; she had been impaled by the drive shaft of the steam engine that had powered the looms when it exploded.

Baljeet had been forced to take care of himself and failed miserably until the age of nine, when he had saved one of the neighborhood bullies from choking to death on a hunk of sausage. The hulking boy had shown his gratitude by protecting the weakling from others, and over time they had become inseparable.

As he grew older, Baljeet discovered he had a natural aptitude for numbers and began running a clandestine game hall under the back steps of the local Fire Temple. With his large friend as enforcer, few tried to weasel out of their debts. Those that did would come to regret it.

By their late teens the two youths had left the numbers racket behind and moved into the much more profitable business of opium smuggling. Once they had "convinced" some lesser merchants to allow them to join in and manage the operation, profits grew and their organization expanded accordingly. Their lifestyle had improved drastically, and the slums of their childhood were all but forgotten. They lived almost like kings, now, and Baljeet was known far and wide as "The Maharajah".

Baljeet's native paranoia had expanded along with his empire, not without reason. There had been three assassination attempts against him over the years, all foiled by his associate, bodyguard, and – when he allowed himself the rare luxury of sentimentality – friend. Although there was no tangible proof, the last one had had all the earmarks of a Fire Cult plot.

He cursed the day he had first thought of brokering a deal with the local Temple whore, a slip of a girl named Isabella. She too had risen in power over the years, and was now one of the youngest High Priestesses on record. It was the Fire Cult who got people hooked on the opium the Maharajah's organization sold, grain opium for the wealthy and laudanum for the merchant classes.

The truly poor were of no consequence. That had been his first lesson in life.

Lately, though, there had been a spate of counterfeit drugs being sold on the streets, and he found it irksome. However dubious the morality and legality of his business, Baljeet never cheated his customers. That had been the secret of his success in gambling as much as it was now in the opium trade. That someone would besmirch his reputation was almost as infuriating as being beholden to the Fire Cult for his current good fortune. He was certain they wanted him out of the way in order to have complete control of the trade, and therefore complete control of their worshipers.

The odalisques splashed and played, and Baljeet made up his mind. One of them could, possibly, maybe, _conceivably_, be an Acolyte – so none of them could be trusted. They would have to be disposed of, _permanently_, and there was only one person that could be trusted implicitly to do the job right.

Baljeet clapped his hands twice and a large man came running. One did _not_ keep the Maharajah waiting. He had learned that the hard way.

His voice was high and sweet, made for a choir of angels brought to earth. "Yes, O Mighty One?"

Baljeet's voice was scarcely lower in tone than the eunuch's. "Bring me Buford.

* * *

><p>Suzy stared at the Koi fish with barely masked contempt. They just floated around aimlessly, and Buford would spend hours just looking at them. If it was a clear day, Buford sat at the edge of the small pond, Suzy next to him. If it rained, he brought out an umbrella and a tarp to sit on. She stayed inside those days. The fish weren't worth getting soaked and sick over.<p>

Hours wasted on fish, wasted on philosophy and meditation. She much preferred it when Buford was following Baljeet around. She could get information then, and information was power. Her boyfriend easily told her of most of the happenings within the organization and she was able to piece together a more complex picture.

But those stupid fish were a distraction. She needed Buford to be more proactive. She needed him to tell her more, the information he withheld was usually the more important. She needed him so she and her brother did not have to live under the thumb of their parents.

Suzy would have preferred The Maharajah, but he was far too smart to trust her.

"What's wrong with you?" Even if Buford liked to philosophize, his voice was still gruff and coarse.

Suzy smiled in a manner plastic and wide, "Nothing, sweetheart. What makes you think something's wrong?" Her pitch was perfectly practiced to convey innocence.

"You're glaring at my fish again."

"Was I?" The petite blond tilted her head and tapped her chin with a well manicured finger, "I didn't mean to. I was just thinking."

"About what? You seemed pretty spaced out." He wasn't paying attention to her now, his eyes firmly locked on his fish.

Suzy dug her fingers into the ground. She was not second place to a bunch of fish, her pride stated so. She had to remind him of that. Perhaps later that night...

"Nothing in particular," She stood up and dusted her skirt, "Is there anything you want for dinner?"

"Meat," He answered without removing his gaze from the small pond

Suzy rolled her eyes, "Can you be a bit more specific?"

Buford paused for a second, "Lots of meat."

Suzy gnashed her teeth. Philosopher though he was, Buford could still be dim as a cave. As she walked away, all she thought about was how much she hated those stupid fish.

* * *

><p>Thaddeus entered the king's throne room in a very bad mood. Perhaps he'd been know for such bad moods before, but this time it was even worse. He had nearly had the two most infamous criminals in the kingdom, only for them to snatched out from right under his nose. It was like offering a bloody steak to a ravenous tiger and then pulling it away right before the tiger began to eat. Needless to say, Thaddeus was sure that His Majesty would feel the same way about his predicament. He was more than surprised when he realized this was not the case.<p>

"What do you mean, 'forget about them', My Lord?" Thaddeus was barely able to retain his self control, "The largest criminals in your kingdom are nearly apprehended and you disregard them as someone petty like... like... like someone who hasn't committed a crime at all!"

Albert looked up from message he was reading, "Really, my young Thaddeus? That was the best you could come up with?"

Thaddeus steeled himself, but tried not to look at his king with contempt. "The law is absolute for all. No one commits a crime too petty to be called innocent," he replied stiffly.

Albert chuckled a bit. "Rather Draconian of you, hm? And I wouldn't even consider you my Dragon..." he trailed off. He shook his head, "But other news for now. How goes it with the protests? As I remember, I left you in charge of affairs there."

Thaddeus smiled maliciously, "We have tightened security by a tenfold. Shoot to kill has been authorized as well."

Albert frowned. "I do not remember asking you to kill my subjects, Thyssen," he replied, dangerously quiet.

Thaddeus was quite confused, "But My Lord, if you do not show the subjects discipline they are liable to rise up against you!"

Albert eyed Thaddeus, and the General Director of Police got the feeling he was in trouble. "You know not what you do, Thyssen," he pulled out a typewriter that looked like it was over a thousand years old. However that was not possible, as Thyssen had seen very few typewriters in the kingdom, all of them being new ones. "I shall call you back later. When you leave, tell Irving he may enter," Albert waved a hand dismissively to Thaddeus, and the Prussian left as swiftly as possible without staining his reputation.

Less than a minute later, a man no more than twenty came into the throne room, kneeling before Albert. "My Lord," he spoke with a slight lisp, his brow sweating and forcing him to push his crudely manufactured glasses up his nose to keep them from falling off. He was dressed in the garb of a servant- a simple blood red robe signified his importance to his master.

Albert clapped to get the servant's attention. "Rise, Irving," Albert replied. Irving complied, pushing his long orange hair out of the way so that he could see his master better.

Irving was in a miserable state, his eyes sunken in from malnutrition. They both knew that it was not due to the fact that Irving was given insufficient amounts of food, but rather that Irving took so many poison neutralizers that he had little room in his stomach left for much else. In the fifteen years he had served in Albert's court, he had never been mistreated by his master whatsoever. At least, not in Irving's opinion. If anyone outside of the throne room had seen the way he was treated, he thought that perhaps even Thyssen would flinch. But it didn't matter. Irving knew that Albert was the only man who could rule such a kingdom filled with corruption and not be in a constant state of rage about it. Perhaps it was the typewriter Albert always had with him. Irving finally decided to speak, "My Lord, I heard about how the Fire Cult betrayed you."

Albert laughed at the idea, "Betrayed me? No Irving, those whores at the temple were never my allies. Therefore I was never betrayed."

Irving was at the very least extremely surprised, "But My Lord, what of the tribute you pay each other? Surely that signifies an alliance of sorts?"

"Such tributes are pointless and the High Priestess knows it. They pay the rent for the Cult's building, I pay them for getting the privilege to have them in my city. We both end up breaking even in the end," Albert replied, fiddling with the typewriter. "Could you get me some more paper? I'd like to speak to them," he asked.

Irving nodded quickly, procuring a roll of paper from his robe and handing it to Albert. "I had anticipated such an event, My Lord," he replied, handing the roll to Albert and watching as he fed the roll into the slot. "If I may ask, My Lord?" Albert looked up, "How did you come to acquire such a device?"

Albert waved his hand dismissively at Irving. "This was given to me by one of the merchants from the Orient. He proved to me that the gods spoke through this meager device, and I bought it off him for a small fortune. It's been worth it, though," Albert replied, typing the keys of the typewriter reverently.

Irving furrowed his brow. "And the Ragnarok device? Was that too inspired by the gods from the machine?" he asked, his interest piqued.

Albert nodded and shushed him, "You cannot speak so openly about that, Irving. What if someone who didn't understand its true nature were to hear about it? They'd crush us both in jaws of steel!"

Irving nodded, tacitly stepping over to his king's side, watching him type.

_Everything goes as planned, _Albert wrote, _Is the Council pleased with my work so far?_

They both watched in amazement as the keys depressed by themselves, writing out their own message. _I cannot say at the moment, as the Council has yet to see your end result. And you need not type this. I can hear you quite clearly._

Albert straightened his back and spoke instead, "You can? Could you have told me earlier?"

_No._

Albert raised an eyebrow, "But why not? I wouldn't have had to-"

_Enough. _The text itself radiated authority, and Albert silenced himself. _Good. As for your work so far, the Council shall review it and make any necessary changes. You will not remember what has happened should the changes be made. Or perhaps you will forget my existence entirely. No matter. Your emotions state that you are bewildered by such certain information._

Albert nodded, "Yes. The Fire Cult: what should I do with them?"

_The Major should clean them up, unless the Lady of Dyes has a problem with it. _The text was somehow emanating emotions, causing the two present to feel them. _You. Servant. Leave your king and myself alone for the moment._

Irving, still in awe of the construct itself, left without a single word. This left Albert alone with whatever spirit inhabited the typewriter. Irving would have feared for his king, but Albert did not fear this supreme being, so why should he? Irving turned and left the antechamber, resolving that he would check up on the Ragnarok project as soon as he could. Albert would want a status report on that immediately.

Albert held the device in his lap as it began to type again. _What did you wish to speak about, little man? I do not have all day to tend to your needs. I am quite busy with outside affairs as it is._

Albert nodded in understanding, "I'd like to make a request, my lord."

_A request, hm? _The text gave off a slight air of authority. _What would you have from me? You have a kingdom, do you not?_

"I do, my lord. But I wish to ask of these criminals that Thaddeus spoke of. What is to happen to them?" Albert asked.

_I believe not anyone in the Council truly knows. We are more or less making up your fates as they go along._

Albert blanched, "You have no concrete plan, my lord? But why not? Why rule this world without an exact outcome of how it will play out for us all?"

_You shall not question the Council. _The text gave off a simmering anger. _Your world is dictated by our minds. We all have better things to do than listen to your complaints. Was it not I who revealed to you the existence of the Council? Was it not I who let you know that Solara is a construct we use to communicate with others besides you? _Albert nodded silently. _Good. And you will stop that Ragnarok business immediately. It won't be completed within your lifetime anyway._

Albert nodded, "So you have told me. I suppose I am such a minor character within your story that it is not harmful to tell me such things?"

_These things are true. For the moment however, we shall convene. Your section is one of the ones awaited by the Council to be presented before we truly begin our project. I shall speak to you at a later time, perhaps. _The typewriter stopped and Albert set it aside, sighing. He supposed that someone would come seize power from him eventually- that member of the Council had close to explicitly stated it.

He frowned. No one would stop Ragnarok except if the Council deemed it unnecessary. Even then, they might toy with the thought of it after he had left. Albert wondered what he would do with is remaining moments as king, thinking of all the different possibilities he could use to his advantage. For now, he would wait. Apathy, he reasoned, was a peaceful way to watch everything fall apart. And so he lounged back, and sent for Irving. Perhaps he'd bring the Fire Cult to their knees, he thought. They wouldn't realize he had struck until he had the High Priestess in his bed. And by then, they'd all be either dead or enslaved. Albert grinned. This would be fun indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Your highness, if you could just sit still –"

Candace suppressed a groan with a great deal of restraint. "Brown, do I really have to remind you _not_ to call me highness?" she snapped. She readjusted the collar throttling her long neck and returned to a still position. "I don't like appellations. They make it sound like I enjoy being stuck in this hellhole."

The royal artist gave a chuckle before returning his attention to the canvas. "Candace, I know. Calm down. I was kidding – you know, having a laugh? Remember what that is?"

The young queen would have pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration if not for her inability to move while having her portrait done. She settled for rolling her eyes, though she couldn't hold a grudge against someone who was as close to a friend as she had in the entire palace. In a way, Django Brown was a kindred spirit. She knew that he wanted to be there no more than she did.

"I know," Candace relented, permitting a reluctant smile. "I'm a little on edge. It's just everything lately. Albert's been distracted with – I don't even know what, to be honest. He doesn't tell me much. Not that I mind him leaving me alone, but it has me anxious." She paused, wondering how much she could ask safely. "Have you heard anything, by chance?"

The paintbrush hovered over the incomplete portrait for a moment, but Django did not remove his eyes from the canvas. "I've heard whispers, but nothing more than that. My importance isn't exactly such that I can gather much useful information."

Candace sighed softly. "I understand. I just tend to worry whenever Albert's up to something, specifically when he's _this_ consumed by... whatever this is." Not wanting to overburden herself with answerless problems, she cleared her throat and changed tact. "Have the police returned from their intended coup?" The last words dripped with sarcasm.

"Indeed they have, my dear," Django said with a chuckle. "And you'll be pleased to know that they failed miserably."

"You know me so well," Candace replied, indeed grinning with pleasure. The new general director of police – what was his name? Thames? – was a weasel-like little man that she didn't particularly care for. Knowing that there was no point in offering an opinion in regard to who was hired onto the palace staff, she merely avoided the general director if it could be helped.

His supreme arrogance surrounding his 'foolproof' plan to capture the notorious conmen, Flynn and his cohort, had only served to irk her further... if only for personal reasons. To hear that the general director had successfully botched the operation brought a little ray of sunshine into her otherwise dreary afternoon. After all, unlike the law enforcement, she had no personal grudge against the young men out peddling their phony wares to an unsuspecting public – quite the opposite, really. In any event, two grifters, even two excellent ones, weren't about to threaten the kingdom.

"How's the progress?" Candace asked. Her back was beginning to ache from sitting in place for so long, and the horrible red petticoat dress that Albert insisted she wear for her royal portrait-painting was itching in all the worst places.

"Getting there." Django swept the brush, laden with red paint, over the painting she could not see. He was young, but his eye was precise and his hand was deft. Ever since he had been discovered on the street, selling art that was far too impressive for the scraps of paper it came on, he had been hired immediately. But even though he had been given all of the supplies and pay he could possibly desire, he wasn't happy having his artistic creativity constrained by Albert's commissions. He had confided in her that much some time ago.

Candace mused for a moment on how both of them, in a way, had been lured into Albert's clutches. The king didn't appear to be a bad man, but in the last several years she couldn't have denied that she was unhappy. Everything had sounded appealing at first – marrying into royalty! It was every young girl's dream. Her family was in high economic standing in the community already, and becoming the queen had only secured her position of importance.

And yet, she had soon discovered that life as the ruling class held little attraction for her. The comfort of day-to-day living was enjoyable, to be sure, but she felt constrained in a way not unlike poor Django. In the castle, she wasn't Candace Flynn, free-spirited daughter of a wealthy blacksmithing company; she was Queen Candace, apathetically subservient wife to the king of the land, and it was tiresome. Especially when temptation beckoned from beyond the palace gates daily...

"How long has it been?" she asked, her voice plaintive. "Can't I at least take a short break before my spine gives way?" When Django nodded in assent, Candace placed a hand to her back and stretched, both feeling and hearing the snaps along her spinal column as she straightened up. As she unbuttoned the collar of the dress, her gaze inevitably fell to the artist, still absorbed in his work. She couldn't repress a small smile. "So, can I see it?"

Django finally lifted his head, looking at her in surprise. "But it's not done yet!"

"Your point?" Candace stood and made to approach the artist's set up.

"Don't!" Django cried, flinging his arms out to stop her. "I haven't finished it yet—it's imperfect—"

But Candace neatly sidestepped his outstretched arms and got behind him so that she could see the painting. What was there took her breath away.

It was like looking into a mirror, but at the same time, the 'reflection' was so much more. There was something he had captured in her expression: not only was it a certain nobility that she didn't believe herself to possess, but a quiet longing and despair in her eyes. To most, it would be unnoticeable, but to her, it was as if Django had embodied her every misgiving about life with a few simple brush strokes. It was beautiful and yet terrible, though only because it wrenched at her heart.

But the most disturbing thing was not the soul-baring quality of what he had declared would be his masterpiece; it was the attention to detail paid only by someone who would scrutinize their subject with the utmost care. Perhaps he did not realize it, but there was affection in the oil on canvas, and it made the queen deeply uncomfortable. Such emotions were dangerous when directed toward the king's wife.

She knew that pain... to love the impossible.

Candace could not meet Django's eyes, though she could see in her periphery that he was peering up at her with both a mixture of abashment and expectant pride... and something else that she wished wasn't there. Instead, she lost herself in the image of her doppelganger, knowing in her heart that the look of distant longing was reflected perfectly in both sets of azure eyes.

* * *

><p>Buford had first noticed her when he was eleven. Her parents and brother had taken her for her first service at the Fire Temple, a tiny girl of no more than five, with blonde poofy curls, delicate skin, porcelain-blue eyes and an upturned nose that some might have called piggish.<p>

To Buford she was the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth.

She might have remained nothing more than an unattainable dream, had it not been for Baljeet's business skills. Combined with his own brutish strength they had made their way up from the slums to tremendous wealth and a whitewash of respectability.

Along the way Buford had discovered within himself a certain ambivalence about the way he led his life. Sure, people got hurt all the time, and he'd done more than his fair share of hurting others in order to survive, but he had a nagging feeling deep down that somehow violence wasn't _all_ there was to life.

As the two associates prospered they had less need to intimidate competitors directly, since they could now hire others to do the dirty work. The resulting free time had weighed heavy on Buford's hands. Baljeet had taught him the rudiments of reading and writing, hoping his bodyguard would keep himself entertained with the lurid and sensationalist broadsides that were published mocking the ruling class and the Fire Cult.

That lasted until Buford set foot in the Great Library looking for a few dime novels to pass the time. The Librarian at the desk had muttered something about cheap literature, and brought back a stack of cheap printings. Buford signed for them and took them to his rooms, where he discovered he had accidentally taken along a copy of Voltaire's _Candide_.

Recognizing in the novel much of the world he lived in made Buford feel better about what he did. If this was the best of all possible world as per Pangloss' idiotic ramblings, he might as well make the best of it. He devoured everything he could get his hands on pertaining to etiquette and style, discovering an affinity for a lighter, more streamlined form of the Orientalism that Baljeet loved to surround himself with. He had ordered a koi pond built in the yard behind his new house and tastefully decorated the place in a combination of Nipponese and Maroc styles which meshed rather than clashing. He studied the meditation techniques of the Jhen monks, finding they helped him achieve a measure of serenity that served him well whenever someone needed dispatching.

After a time Buford decided he needed female companionship, and neither a Fire Cult Acolyte nor a merchant's simpering daughter would do. He was wealthy enough to buy his way into more select social circles, and he rubbed elbows with the City's finest at the Opera House.

It was – irony of ironies! – at a staging of _Candide_ where he saw her again. She had grown into a willowy maiden, still with those same fluffy curls, porcelain-blue eyes and upturned nose that he remembered so well.

Baljeet had been shocked at first, then amused and finally annoyed by Buford's continued requests that he arrange a formal meeting. He gave in because, as Buford himself pointed out, he was no longer a street urchin but a young man of taste, impeccable erudition and _considerable _fortune.

It had been that wealth more than his hard-earned self-education that had made him an acceptable suitor to her parents.

The Johnsons were impoverished petty bourgeois so desperate to save face in front of their social circle that they were willing to prostitute their young daughter to a man whom they would ordinarily not give the time of day.

Buford could live with that. Not because of his philosophical studies, nor because meditation gave him peace of mind, but because it had made Suzy _his_. He could live with that because it gave him legitimate reasons to look down on her family, while keeping Suzy on the pedestal he had placed her on in his mind since he had been a scruffy boy scrounging a free meal at the Fire Temple.

He never once thought to take her off of that pedestal, tall and narrow as it was. She was one step below divinity and all his, and that was all that really mattered.

* * *

><p>The metallic taste of blood overwhelmed his tongue. Nearly gagging, Jeremy Johnson removed the offending piece of pork from his mouth with a napkin. He whistled for a servant to come and take his plate away. The servant picked up the plate and asked, "Shall I order the cook to prepare you another meal?"<p>

"A salad. No meat whatsoever, and as many cherry tomatoes as possible." The young man waited until the servant was gone before slumping in his chair. He couldn't act so casual around the help, after all. He heard the clatter of plates and knives echo all across the dining room. Normally, the chatter of his parents and their guests filled the room, masking the tinny sounds.

That night, it was just him and the servants. No squealing about the new gossip from his mother and her friends, and no betting between his father and his friends. The blond liked it that way; it was far more peaceful. Jeremy stared at the candle that sat at the center of the table, one of the few sources of light in the entire cavernous room, enthralled by its warm, dancing flame. His eyes had nearly grown heavy when two soft hands enclosed around his eyes and a soft voice whispered 'Guess who'.

But he didn't need to guess. He had grown up with the owner of the playful voice, the soft hands, and the distinct scent that now engulfed him. He reached up to the hands and held them tenderly before asking, "I wonder... could it be a hired assassin? Surely, such rough and coarse hands belong to no one else!"

He heard an angelic laughter near his ear. The hands were removed from his eyes and he saw his sister move around to sit on the edge of the table, mere inches away from him. The servant returned with the salad, overflowing with cherry tomatoes. Setting the salad down, the servant scurried away, a glare from the youngest Johnson boring into his back for having disturbed them.

Glancing at the salad, Suzy picked up a cherry tomato before popping it into her mouth. "You still don't like to eat meat, brother?"

At the mention of meat, Jeremy's face scrunched up, "Meat is for barbaric brutes. Like that Buford."

He began chewing a piece of lettuce, savoring the crunch and the taste, "Speaking of the brute, shouldn't you be with him?"

Suzy's eyes widened, "Don't you want me with you?"

Jeremy smiled warmly at his sister, "Of course I do. But you should be more preoccupied with your husband."

"He's not my husband."

"Then your future husband."

Suzy snorted, "He's not my future husband either. Married or otherwise, I feel nothing for him. It's simply a business matter. Besides," She slipped her hand into his, "I don't need to marry. I have you."

Jeremy was filled with joy. If she didn't like the brute, then he could still arrange a better suitor for his dear sister. Someone sophisticated and gentle. He squeezed her hand gently. Yes, he was the older brother. It was his duty and honor to protect his younger sister.

* * *

><p>Carl rubbed his face and sighed. His vision was as good as it would ever be, the doctor of opticks had told him. At least the lens grinder wouldn't have to figure out a new shape for his spectacles, just make him a new pair.<p>

It was an expense Carl wished he could go without, but it was that or near-blindness. The watchmaker and tinker could scarcely afford not being able to see anything further that three feet away. Tripping or walking into something and dropping a delicate mechanism was a fate worse than death in his profession.

Fortunately, his work was usually within arm's reach, and even the smallest parts were clearly visible through the large magnification glass the lens grinder had made for him when he first went into business. It had been a huge investment, to be sure, but Carl had seen his master ruin his eyesight over years of squinting at tiny watch parts in bad lighting. The young man had sworn to himself he would not suffer the same fate if he could help it.

After two years of working practically on his own with merely nominal supervision from the old watchmaker, the master's family had finally accepted the man's blindness. They had coldly informed the auburn-haired youth his services were no longer required, so he should pack his things and go. He could keep the tools, the master said, and none dared disobey him, but the family still gave him dirty looks as though he were a common thief.

With the closing of the business canceling out his apprenticeship contract, Carl had found himself in the unusual position of being his own man at the age of nineteen. His parents had been well enough off when he was apprenticed out that they could afford to give him a small bag of gold pieces. He had hidden it well, and come the day his master's family threw him out he had enough to lease a small attic.

He had chosen it for two reasons, the first being the huge central skylight that provided illumination well into even a winter evening. It allowed him long working days with a minimum of lamp oil used, therefore less risk of a fire. He had been nine when a fire broke out in his parent's neighborhood, and though their house was untouched, the conflagration had left an indelible impression on little Carl's mind.

The second advantage was the location of the attic itself. The building was adjacent to the neighborhood's Fire Temple, and the vents of the chapel's heating system ran just outside the wall next to what Carl had decided would be the bedroom area. It didn't take much work to reroute a couple of the pipes, and the heat transmitted to the bricks kept down the cost of staying alive during the bitterly cold winter nights. He had considered boring a small hole for a pipe to run through all the way to what served as the kitchen, but the risk of fire was not worth the convenience. He relied on a small wood-burning stove which also served as a smelter for some of his work, or simply bought prepared meals from one of the shops that took advantage of the Fire Temple's exhaust systems.

The walk back to his attic shop was mostly uneventful, and he had already decided to buy one of Mrs. Lovett's pies. He knew better than to buy the ones labeled pork or lamb, though. The potato and cheese ones were safer.

His plans were derailed, however, by a loud argument at the Temple steps.

A young girl was crying bitterly while a man and woman – obviously the parents – berated her as the Temple's Officiant argued with them. He walked closer and recognized the priestess. Her name was Holly, and her brown skin and black ringlets had always held a certain attraction for Carl. She had personally initiated him in some of the lesser aspects of worship, such as the Ritual of Winter Warmth.

He caught Holly's eye and she looked almost relieved to see him. Carl took it as a sign that he should come closer. It earned him glares from the man and woman, while the crying girl – barely twelve from the look of her – tried unsuccessfully to hide behind the Officiant's robes.

Carl bowed to Holly and nodded to the man and woman. "My greetings, o Servant of Solara. May I be of assistance?"

"Ye can assist by turnin' round an' stayin' out of other's business!" snapped the woman.

The husband punched her in the arm and snarled "Shut up! This is all your fault anyway, wantin' to 'prentice the girl to the Temple! She's no good to them an' no good to anyone else! Never was, never will be."

"Enough!" snapped the Officiant. Turning to the bespectacled young man, she spoke formally. "Master Karl, perhaps you may be a more disinterested party here?"

She pronounced it "_Kar_-uhl", which told him she was using his surname. That and the "Master" was a subtle signal to the other two that this was no mere uneducated coal shoveler like themselves. The couple's attitude adjusted itself accordingly.

"Of course, my Lady," he bowed charmingly. "How may I be of service to the Temple?"

"We have a dilemma on our hands. Young Melissa here," she gestured to the girl that kept trying to hide behind her, "was apprenticed to the Fire Cult five years ago. She served her Novitiate well, but unfortunately she did not pass the second level of initiation."

Carl thought for a moment. Second level meant assassin training. The girl was either not quite agile enough, or didn't have what it took to be a killer. From the look of her, probably the latter.

"So what is the problem, Mistress Holly?"

It was the father who replied. "We don't want 'er." The girl winced as if she'd been slapped in the face.

The mother expanded on it. "She ain't no good for _anythin'_, now. Just another mouth to feed, can't marry her off 'cause she's been at the Temples, an' even if anyone _did_ take her we ain't gonna waste anythin' on no dowries, specially not on no Temple whore."

"You should be ashamed of yourselves," Holly snapped. "Everyone knows the girls are virgins until they pass to the third level."

"Don't matter what people _know_, it's what they _think_." The father shrugged and went on. "'Once at the Temple, always a whore;' that's how it's always been, an' how it'll always be. You can keep the lil' slut."

The girl wept openly now, and Holly looked enraged enough to make the man burst into flame with just a muttered incantation. Carl decided it was time to step in.

"Mistress Holly, I understand the Novices are recruited under the standard apprentice contracts?"

Holly looked at him in confusion. "Yes, of course, everything is done under the law. Three silver pieces paid out to the parents, and the girls are to serve at the Temple from that day onward. The ones who don't make the cut are sent home and the families give the money back."

"So being a standard apprentice contract, all the rules and regulations apply, am I right?"

The Officiant's midnight-dark ringlets bobbed as she nodded, understanding growing in her eyes. "Of course. Transfers of apprenticeship are not unheard of. Is this what you are suggesting?"

The mother spoke up greedily. "Here now, you ain't gonna leave us outta this! We're still her parents an' we decide what's best for her! You wants her as a 'prentice it's gonna _cost _you, Mister Hoity Toity."

Holly's response was immediate and merciless. Moving too fast for the mother to move away or block her, she pressed her left hand against the woman's face, exclaiming "_In nomine spiritus flamma!_"

The ring on Holly's finger glowed brightly and flesh sizzled as the mother shrieked in pain. When the Officiant pulled her hand away, the woman's face was branded with the Sigil of Solara, centered around her eye.

"Begone, woman!" Holly roared. "Take your worthless man with you, and never set foot in a Temple again, for you will be consigned to the flames! This is your punishment for your greed and callousness toward your own child." She turned to the father. "You had better watch yourself, too."

"I ain't done nothin'!" was the man's frightened reply.

Holly's expression was of utter loathing. "It was her and not you only because _she_ spoke first. Go and never come back here, or you _will_ regret it."

Carl was astonished. He had known Holly for years, shared her bed on occasion not just as worshiper but as a friend, and even teased her about leaving the Cult, but never had he seen her this angry.

The man and woman left in a hurry. They never once turned to look back at their weeping daughter.

Holly turned to her now. "Hush, child! They are not worthy of your tears." She looked at the auburn-haired man. "Aren't you a little young to take her on as an apprentice?"

"No," Carl smiled. "No, I'm not. My master took me on when he was too old. I learned a lesson there. She's young enough to learn quickly, and even if she doesn't, I can use some help with the housekeeping." He smiled at the girl, noticing for the first time the splatter of golden freckles across her nose and cheeks. She looked up shyly with large aquamarine eyes half-hidden behind her disheveled flaxen hair. "What's your name, my dear?"

"M-Me-Melissa..." she whispered.

"What a pretty name. Get your things, Melissa, and you'll come with me."

The girl sniffled and went into the Temple's vestibule. Holly took the opportunity to speak freely.

"Carl, you have to put the pipes back. The High Priestess will be sending an weekly inspection squad as of next month."

"Shit. Are you sure?"

"I had it from Katie. Apparently Her Flagrancy thinks we should 'make worshipers more appreciative of the Goddess' gift.' I'll do what I can, perhaps tell them you'll do maintenance work on the Temple's mechanisms in exchange, but for now... you'll have to find another source of heat for the night." Her soft poppy-colored lips curved upward. "Perhaps you should teach your new apprentice the Ritual for Winter Warmth."

It took a moment for her words to really register. "What?" He was shocked. "Solara's Mercy, woman, how old is she, eleven?"

"Twelve. That means she's of marriageable age. In any case, she belongs to you, now. Unless you've changed your mind?" The Officiant shrugged. "Her parents didn't want her, and she can no longer stay at the Temples, so either you buy her contract for five silver pieces or she's on the street on her own."

He pulled five silver coins with Albert's head on them from his pocket and dropped them into her hand just as Melissa came back with a small bundle looking obviously afraid.

Holly patted her on the head. "Worry not, Melissa. Master Karl will take good care of you."

Melissa's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes, Mistress Holly."

Carl put on a cheerful face, mostly for the girl's benefit. "Come along then, Melissa, we've still to procure dinner." Mrs. Lovett's pies would be too much, he considered, so he led her to the bakery, the fruit seller's, and then the cheese-maker's. Once in his attic – _their _attic, now, he reminded himself – he set up a makeshift bed for her at the foot of his, moved some things so she had a drawer to herself, then proceeded to dine with her, trying all the while to make her feel at ease. He set himself to work while there was still enough light, and she watched with tense curiosity from a few feet away.

She seemed to relax once he got into his bed and she saw he had no intentions of forcing himself on her. She wrapped herself into her own sheets and whispered a soft goodnight in return to his.

Melissa fell asleep fairly quickly, with the summer sunset's fading colors still visible through the skylight. Carl lay back, wondering what he had gotten himself into. He hadn't planned for an apprentice at all, but he hadn't had the hardness of heart to leave her to the streets. She wouldn't have lasted the night, Fire Cult Novice or not. The news that he'd have to reroute the pipes wasn't making things easier. It was going to be a cold winter indeed... unless...

_Start with the Ritual of Winter Warmth, my foot!_ he mused. _Better the Hands of Summer first, to get her used to the idea._

* * *

><p>The carriage trundled and shook rather violently as it rolled over cobbled streets, causing the occupants a great degree of discomfort. The streets were not intended for anything other than a single horse, and Ferb knew that it would be some time before they had inner-city roads more used to such traffic. The world was certainly changing, he thought, and wondered if he would live to see any more of it.<p>

Fabian Fletcher had been born a disgrace – the unwanted result of the oldest profession, and worse, his birthplace an illegal house of leisure, unregistered with the Fire Cult. Early life had been strange – never knowing his father, but having no shortage of savvy and streetwise mothers, he had learned quickly to read behavior, and most importantly, learned when to keep his mouth shut. Such skills were valued in the trade, and Ferb had assumed that he would eventually be entertaining clients. Fate had something else in store – Albert's men ransacked the building, and arrested nearly everyone he knew. Being concise and charming, his avoidance of the magistrates was simple enough.

As a cynical fourteen year old, he had aimlessly wandered the streets, charming people for their wallets or bodies, or sometimes both. For a year this had continued, until one day he had stumbled across a play put on by travelling actors. Sometimes he remembered the play being Othello, sometimes Hamlet. Either way, common for those days, the female characters were all portrayed by boys his age, and he found himself fascinated by one of them. The redhead onstage had overly dramatic flourishes to his physical acting perhaps, but his movements and speech signalled one thing to Ferb – this boy could act and lie as naturally as blinking.

That was how he had met Phineas Flynn, asking to see him after the play had finished. In person, Flynn was fast-talking and occasionally condescending, but he seemed to recognize something in his visitor too, and a shy friendship began, cemented when they realized how this fortunate partnership had certain monetary possibilities.

Ferb fixed his bowler hat on his head, and his mind on the present. Phineas raised an eyebrow at him, apparently aware that Ferb had drifted off for a moment. The turning of pages was barely audible above the trundling clatter of the carriage, but Gretchen was there, quietly reading some sort of political text.

"Self-Help," Phineas read aloud, looking at Gretchen's book. "With Illustrations of Character and Conduct. Samuel Smiles. I haven't heard of him."

"Likely because you associate with people who cannot read," Gretchen said, her voice near a whisper, but still carrying enough venom to kill a bull elephant.

"I associate with either class," Phineas smiled back.

"You are hardly well-represented in higher circles, Flynn."

"Nonsense. There's the upper class and the working class, and there's me in the middle, making money off both!"

"Hurm," Gretchen said disapprovingly, and ignored Phineas for the rest of the journey.

Ferb did have certain limitations in his people-reading skills, and Gretchen was one of the few people he could not read. Sending Gretchen was an intelligent move on the High Priestess' part. The woman before Ferb was completely cold, the only emotion ever coming to the surface being a sharp disgust with the rest of the world. Other Fire Cult followers were trained to hide their emotions, but most showed something – mostly they would smile or blush or even giggle when asked to talk about the High Priestess. Isabella had such an air that her underlings were all infatuated with her. Not Gretchen though. Gretchen also didn't serve clients – rumor had it her first client managed to misplace his spinal cord. And most of his organs, now that Ferb remembered.

The carriage was brought to a sudden thundering stop, the wheels beginning to slide as the stone gave way to marble. Ferb grunted as he was roughly shoved from the carriage, and subsequently pulled to his feet by Gretchen's assistant.

The full splendor of the Fire Temple was on display, the white building a glistening beacon of Solara's blessing to the rest of the accursed city. Ferb swallowed nervously as he looked up at the place of worship. He noted wryly that he had always thought buildings full of scantily dressed, opium smoking seductresses to be a good thing until now.

"Don't look so glum," said Adyson. "How about a joke? How do we know Albert's the king?"

When Ferb didn't answer, Phineas summoned a façade of confidence in preparation for Isabella and asked, "I don't know, how?"

"He doesn't have shit all over him," Adyson said cheerfully.

"Yes, excrement always makes for a satisfactory punch line," Gretchen snapped. "Just get them into the temple."

As expected, the temple was near boiling point. Ferb tugged at his shirt collar awkwardly as they were led through huge oaken doors into the private quarters of the High Priestess. Barely lit by an extremely ornate fireplace, the images carved into its surface seeming to move as the flames danced. Ferb spent his time looking at the hanging tapestries, aware that the Fire Cult had a sense of theatricality and could take some time.

Their scorned client wasted no time however, emerging from the shadows of an alcove, face lit by the light. She was extraordinarily attractive, but her confused blinking and heavy eyes today marked her as an opium addict.

"Isabella!" Phineas said, spreading his arms.

The end of the staff flung up sharply and Ferb watched as Phineas yelped and winced, shielding his now injured dignity from further attack. Ferb hoped that Phineas' plan to get out of this situation was not his usual 'talk fast,' because it seemed Isabella had little time for anything of the sort. At least she hadn't set him on fire yet.


	3. Chapter 3

"Not again…" Heinz groaned.

"Look, you want someone else's business, take it. But I'm the only one for miles."

"Fine, I'll take it."

The boy rolled the barrel into Heinz' hallway, setting it down next to the grand piano. Something within cracked, and Heinz hoped it had not been what he thought it was. Absent-mindedly, he tossed a pouch of coin to the boy, who quickly divided the money up between him and his fellow child criminals.

"When'll you be wanting the next one, doc?"

"It's Professor, and I'll contact you."

A second boy piped up, a shrill Irish accent. "It's hard to find them you know, best put in, ah, an order early."

"Get out!"

The group of five giggled irritatingly and hurried from his porch, disappearing into the night, likely to another graveyard. Heinz rolled his eyes – when not actually dealing with them, he remembered they were not all bad. Who else was he going to acquire corpses from?

That was it then, he realised depressingly. Back into the old routine, fetching corpses, studying anatomy, making his own modifications. After the temple, he had been feeling more physically fit than he had in years, and his hair and grizzly beard had managed to achieve a proper shade of white, rather than the previous badger-coloured mess. However, he could not help but feel disappointed – nothing else had come of his meeting with Solara. He wondered if she had forgotten.

The whir of gears and cogs heralded the arrival of his only companion. With a mechanical groan, Percival the Platypus shuddered forwards into the room, looking around blankly. The creature was by now, more machine than mammal, but it was necessary for its survival.

"Hello," grunted Heinz, closing the door. He gestured over to the barrel. "New subject. Did the god of fire call while I was out?"

Little bits of humour and sarcasm always peppered Professor Doofenshmirtz' voice – he was partly convinced that the platypus could understand them. Percival chattered and walked out of the hall and into the living room. Heinz shrugged and followed after him, ignoring the corpse-containing barrel for now.

"Do you want fed ju…"

A pair of golden eyes were glinting directly at him.

"How did you get in here?"

The young woman smirked, lowering her eyes back to the newspaper.

"Did you know mercury poisoning can be contracted through hats?" she said casually.

Heinz wondered if she was a Fire Cult assassin. Carefully, he reached towards the fireplace, grasping a poker behind his back.

"I wouldn't," she said blandly.

Heinz dropped the poker. "I don't know how you got in here, but you can get right back out now. I'll get the police."

"But I like it here." She set the newspaper on the couch.

She was slender and dark, coupled with red hair and golden eyes that suggested mixed race. With dawning horror, Heinz realised that she was wearing his dressing gown and slippers. Yawning, she stretched herself out on the couch.

"Get out!" Heinz near-shrieked.

"Calm down, little man," she grinned.

Heinz' temper washed away immediately, as it he had been completely submerged in icy water. Fear replaced it, running through his mind and telling him to run, and run fast. Instead, his body failed him, and he stayed rooted to the spot.

"My lady. Your holi…"

"Always with the grovelling, and the begging, and the 'oh, I'm not worthy'. Cheer up little man."

"Why have you… graced me with you presence?"

Solara picked up Percival, scratching what little fur the clockwork platypus had.

"I'm bored," she said. "I thought I'd observe from a more interesting viewpoint. Besides, you have a nice house, and I like your dressing gown."

Heinz' hand travelled towards his forehead, touching the scar that traversed it.

"Yes, when I'm not around, you'll be able to hear me through that."

"Are you – are you really here?" Heinz choked.

"I am, and I am not. I'm still talking with others, and meddling in affairs, but not from this consciousness. It's complicated – I am Solara, but Solara is not me. I think independently of myself!"

Heinz wondered if this was a stab at humour.

"Will you offer guidance?"

Solara shrugged. "You should know that there's another plot to overthrow Albert. Or there will be. And someone's coming after you, which should be funny."

She unceremoniously dropped the platypus and rose to her feet, nonchalantly walking past Heinz.

"Are you leaving?"

"Don't be silly, little man. I'm staying here."

Heinz muttered his disapproval as quietly as he could.

"If you're not going to eat this, I will," Solara called from the hallway.

It took Heinz several minutes to realise that she meant the corpse.

* * *

><p>A week after she had come into his life Carl took Melissa out with him to introduce her as his apprentice to the local shopkeepers. She had already created a routine for the housekeeping - not that there was much to do once she had brought everything up to date - and seemed to be settling in nicely.<p>

He had caught himself admiring the way she moved as she swept the floors, or stretched to put something up on a shelf that was slightly too high for her to reach easily. Part of the charm of watching her was her clothing. The few items she had brought with her from her days at the Fire Temple she had dyed, the brilliant saffron transmogrified to warm brown. It didn't change they way they clung to her. After considering their effectiveness outside the Temple he'd decided he would get her a couple of dresses and other accoutrements. It wouldn't do to have his little apprentice be accosted by ruffians on account of the thin fabric, or get frostbite from the lack of coverage.

After an extended stop at the secondhand clothing shop they went to the ironmonger's to pick up a few items that Carl had dropped off for soldering. The smith raised an eyebrow but Carl's glare kept him from saying anything in the girl's presence.

The apothecary was delighted to hear of the new apprentice, and winked lewdly at Carl. He managed to fake a grin in return. It wouldn't do to let the old lecher think Melissa was available, lest he try to molest her the next time she went there on an errand.

Mrs. Lovett was delighted to meet Melissa and offered her a small pie. Having been forewarned, the girl accepted a cheese and potato one. Carl took another one, mainly to reduce the probability of ending up served to passersby in a pastry shell. He told her as much as they walked down the cobblestone street.

"Are you sure about that, Master?" Her aquamarine eyes were round above the golden freckles.

Carl shrugged. "That's the rumor, anyway. Between the corpse thieves and the pie sellers, it's a wonder anyone ever gets buried in this city. It's usually only the well-off who can rest in peace, and sometimes not even then."

The look on Melissa's face was one of unadulterated disgust. "What do people want dead bodies for?"

"Well, aside from anatomy classes at the School of Medicine," Carl mused, "there are whisperings of a black magician buying fresh corpses for who knows what purpose. I've heard everything from cannibalism to necrophilia to building a golem. Take your pick."

She was genuinely confused. "What's 'necrophilia'?"

She almost threw up when he explained it to her.

After her stomach had settled they went on to a few other shops. A strange bell sound rang down a side alley.

"What's that?"

Carl swallowed hard. He didn't want to tell her, didn't want her to see. Solara's Novices were generally sheltered until they advanced to Third Level training. It was inevitable that she'd learn about them sooner or later, though, especially living where they did.

"It's a Death Cart."

She turned those clear, innocent eyes to him again. "Death Carts?"

He saw it coming and pulled her aside. "It's a public service. The Crown sends them out when there's a dead body that has to be disposed of. It's usually called by the very poor... or when there's an unknown murder victim left in an alley."

They stood in a doorway to let the lumbering vehicle pass. Drawn by two mournful-looking donkeys, the black wagon trundled past, the black-robed driver ringing a brass bell. Two brawny footmen also clad in black followed at each corner of the cart. All three wore black half-masks that made them look like failed executioner's apprentices.

The back of the wagon was open and they could see the odd foot sticking out from the end. As it moved down the alley the rear wheel hit a pothole where a cobblestone was missing. The jolt rattled the entire wagon, altering the equilibrium of the pile of bodies. A slim hand and wrist flopped down over the edge of the wagon, but neither footman bothered to rearrange it.

As the Death Cart passed them by they could see the bodies piled in the back. The pretty little hand belonged to a young girl. Her eyes stared vacantly at the sky, and Carl grimaced in disgust. They had been too lazy to even have the mercy to close her eyes. He decided to make arrangements, just to be sure his own body never ended up on the back of a cart.

Melissa's cry brought him back to the then and there. Her hands had flown to her mouth and she was breathing heavily. Her eyes were riveted to the girl's body in the back of the cart.

"Melissa?" Carl was surprised at her reaction. "What is it?"

She was on the edge of hysterics, barely able to speak. "It's... that.. it's Myra!"

"Who?" He looked back at the slowly-departing wagon and was horrified to realize the dead girl's body was half-clothed in a torn Fire Cult Novice's saffron tunic. From the condition of her clothing and the bruises on her throat it was far too obvious she had been brutally assaulted and raped before being strangled by someone much larger than herself.

Carl could see Melissa was at the edge of a full-blown fit. Gathering up their bundles he quickly led her back to their attic so she could at least be in a safe place when it happened.

They had barely made it through the door when she collapsed, shrieking in a mix of horror and grief. He left her alone a moment, somehow knowing he would get no response from her; he put their purchases away instead.

The clock in the bell tower chimed the quarter hour, then the half hour before Melissa calmed down enough to give him a coherent relation between hiccups. He took the time to prepare her some tea and added a few drops of laudanum to calm her down, then added one more for certainty's sake.

"Myra was my friend..." She sipped a few times before going on. "We went through the first level together... but she developed early." The aquamarine eyes closed, remembering. "They placed her with another teacher in the Temple two years ago, for combined Second and Third Level training. We still spoke, and were still in the same barracks..." She looked at him, a mix of emotions playing across her face. "She... she didn't pass, either. Neither of us could bring ourselves to kill our first targets." She swigged the remnants of her tea and whimpered.

Carl helped her up and led her to sit on the bed. "Didn't she have any family to go back to?"

"She said her uncle was coming to get her... but I... I came here before he arrived from his country estate. Mistress Holly said if he wasn't here in a week, she would have to go out on her own. What.. what if he didn't come?" She became agitated again. "Oh, Solara... what if you hadn't been there?"

"Shhh..." He pulled her close and held her a while. "Don't think about that now. You need rest."

Her breathing evened out, a sure sign that the laudanum was working. After a while, just when he thought she had fallen asleep, she spoke once more. "Master... Why did you take me on?"

He kissed her forehead tenderly. "I didn't have the heart to leave you out there to become another Myra."

She looked up at him and smiled softly through her drugged tears. "You're such a sweet man, Master..."

Carl's resistance almost crumbled then and there. Melissa was drowsy and compliant. A similar opportunity might not come for a long time. He had a normal man's needs, but he could take care of them; he could take care of hers as well. She could tend to him later on, he decided. It was too much to ask of her at the moment, but he would go there eventually.

Murmuring soft words of encouragement he pulled her up into the bed, undressed her, and began teaching her the Hands of Summer.

* * *

><p>The High Priestess watched Phineas with mingled amusement and annoyance as he cringed in pain. The thief deserved it; even in the face of what could lead to his untimely combustion, he was as arrogant as ever.<p>

Isabella lowered her staff and held it at her side, prepared to use it to its full capacity should the need arise. The warm breath of the goddess in her ear assured her that she had nothing to fear from Phineas and his cohort. Even in the final grips of her opium-induced torpor, she felt the influence of Solara giving her the strength and mental clarity to deal with the encounter.

"Ouch," Phineas managed. "Really, Isabella? That's the way you greet an old... flame?" He grinned cheekily, though his eyes revealed that he _knew_ just how horrible the pun was. Even the green-haired fellow at his side planted his face in his palm.

"Oh, please, Flynn," Isabella hissed in response. "Your days of deserving an ounce of my respect are long over, and you know it. It's not as if you've done anything recently to earn my favor – or the favor of Solara."

The young man shrugged. "It's not that I judge you for running this, er," he waved his hand around at the tapestries lining the walls, "fine institution, but I'll admit that following someone like your conflagrated chief might be hazardous to my health."

"Speaking ill against Solara is blasphemy within these walls, Flynn," Gretchen spat, giving him a sharp jab in the back. "Keep it up, and you'll find that certain things are a lot _more_ hazardous to your health."

"All right, all right," Phineas conceded, raising his hands in defeat, and Isabella was pleased to see the fear finally showing in his eyes. He was too confident for his own good, but at least he wasn't foolish enough to think himself powerful in Solara's domain.

"Now, I assume you know why you're here," Isabella continued after the little interruption.

"Actually, no," he responded. "Your bespectacled servant here was so keen on getting us here that she didn't give me the pleasure of knowing the details of this little rendezvous. You'll have to... enlighten me." At that, even his partner gave him a smack upside the head.

Isabella tutted impatiently. "As I recall, you promised us a delivery of opium in return for a very considerable sum on our behalf. And how long ago was our order placed? Gretchen?"

"Two months, mistress."

"Two months," echoed Isabella, approaching Phineas. "Funny that two months should have gone by without a single word from you, especially given that you said it wouldn't take long before we had our purchase—how long, Gretchen?"

"Three weeks, mistress."

"_Three weeks_." This time, the words were repeated with deadly emphasis as Isabella came nearly nose-to-nose with the thief. "Unless you have a very good reason as to why the opium that I paid for was not in my hands over a month ago, I see no reason why you should walk out the temple doors today."

Phineas blanched. "Oh, that. Well, yes, you see, funny story, there was a bit of a mix-up with our provider – we just distribute, see – and his goods were actually backordered, so—"

The sun talisman at the end of the High Priestess' staff burst into flame. "Don't lie to me, Flynn. By Solara's divine grace, I know when falsehoods are coming from your lips. Despite your uncanny ability to swindle the general public, you can't get this sort of thievery past me."

"Your highness—" began the Englishman. Adyson smacked his arm and corrected him with the proper appellation. "Your _flagrancy_," he went on, shooting an unmistakable glare at the young woman beside him, "if I may intervene?"

Isabella took a step back from Phineas and focused her attention on his cohort, the end of her staff extinguishing. The thief would be spared for the time being.

"What is your name again?" she demanded. Up until that moment, she had not met him personally, though she was well aware of his longstanding position as Phineas' partner in crime.

"Fabian Fletcher, your flagrancy, but I opt to be called Ferb." He removed his bowler hat and held it at chest level. "Forgive me for any presumption, but I gather that you and my associate have been previously acquainted...?"

Isabella laughed derisively. "Unfortunately, yes. We met long ago, when we were both nothing but street urchins: he a runaway, and I an orphan. Young and foolish as I was at the time, I was... involved with him for some months before I joined the temple and was shown the error of my ways. To this day, I feel nothing but regret that I could have been taken in by something as lowly as what you call your 'associate.'" She ignored the look of indignity on Phineas' face.

Fabian – Ferb – nodded. "So I was correct. Now, as I imagine that you are a reasonable young woman –" he stomped on Phineas' foot when the latter opened his mouth, seemingly about to disagree, "– I would politely request that you offer a chance for redemption, rather than immediately disposing of him."

"You mean the both of you," Gretchen muttered, but Isabella shot her a look.

"And how on earth would sparing the little worm serve me any purpose?" she asked.

"Are you content with your influence in the city?"

The question gave the High Priestess pause. "Since when is anyone content with their level of power?" she replied slowly. "That Solara's divinity must be placed even with the authority of the king of this putrefied land is a disgrace to the notion of hierarchy. Why do you ask?"

Phineas, who had been listening intently to the entire conversation, lit up. "What if we could get you more power?" he asked excitedly.

Isabella glanced to Ferb, who nodded in agreement with Phineas' outburst. She turned to the thief and crossed her arms. "Explain. And make it quick. I have little time for your harebrained schemes."

"Oh, but this one's worth your time." Phineas stretched out his arms, cracked his knuckles, and held his hands up as if setting the stage. "Okay, picture this: we start small – infiltrate the palace and earn the trust of the servants and what have you. Once we've secured our position in the palace society, we work our gradual way up the ladder, and –!"

"Bob's your uncle," Ferb finished for him.

Phineas spread his arms wide. "It's brilliant! Once we've become chummy with the ol' king, we'll have our fair share of sway, and then you'll have all the influence – and all the opium – you could ever want, just by association!"

Isabella continued to glare at him, feeling the annoyance simmer ever closer to boiling rage. "Oh, yes, _excellent_ plan, Flynn. There are only a few little hiccups, such as, oh, I don't know, how a wretch like you is going to get anywhere _near_ the palace, what with the price on your head?" The staff reignited as she shook with anger. "It's absolutely ridiculous."

"No, no, wait, you have to hear me out," Phineas continued, a hint of panic in his voice. "You don't understand. Have you met the new general director of police?"

"Thyssen," Isabella muttered, her anger fading back into irritation as the flames on the staff subsided. "Yes, I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting him when he came sniffing around here with that overlarge nose of his. I don't believe he'll be coming back any time soon, though." She smirked to herself, knowing that the brand that Gretchen had left on the general director would be a permanent one.

"I resent that nose comment," Phineas replied. "Look at me. Imagine me in a police getup. What do you see?"

Isabella allowed her eyes to travel over Phineas' short but lean frame. Now that he mentioned it, he _did_ bear a certain resemblance to Thyssen, the poor grooming and lack of taste in clothing aside. And if he took measure to change his appearance accordingly...

"Exactly," he said, seeing her nod of approval. "If we dispatch kindly Director Thyssen, it wouldn't be a problem at all for yours truly to take over _his_ identity, thus getting me beyond the palace gates. Not to mention that the general director is certainly more important than a wretch such as myself." He winked. "And there you have it."

As mind-bogglingly senseless and ridden with complications as the scheme was, Isabella couldn't help but feel the mental cogs begin to turn. If everything went according to plan, it would be relatively easy to gain the power she deserved.

**The power **_**I**_** deserve, Isabella,** murmured the voice of her mistress, so that only she could hear it. **Do not forget that. But the conman's proposal is a worthy one. However, he is thinking far too small. What needs to happen is a complete overhaul of the system. I can assure the success of the coup if you follow my every instruction without question.**

_Of course, mistress_, Isabella thought in response, feeling the warmth of the goddess' presence flow through her veins. _What is it you wish me to do?_

**You are without task for the time being. The first step is dealing with Thyssen, and that can be left up to the conmen. Leave the law-breaking to those who are expected to do so, and if they fail in their portion, then you needn't worry.**

_Yes, mistress._ Isabella returned her attention to the men before her. She knew exactly what Solara intended to happen, and she sought to see it through. "All right, Flynn. I'll play along with your little game. If you can successfully infiltrate the palace, I will gladly do whatever it takes to help you. I have one alteration, though."

"And that would be…?" Phineas seemed nothing short of relieved that she had decided against torching him.

"If we're going to acquire the power that I… that we… truly deserve, we're going to have to get a little more ambitious." A cunning smile curled her lips. "Once you boys get into the proper position… you're going to have to kill the king."

Even Ferb raised a thin eyebrow at her extraordinary request. Phineas looked dumfounded for a moment, but then his face cracked into an enormous grin. "Great idea! Who needs a king?"

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Idiot. There will be a king."

"But you said…"

"You will be king. I would take the throne myself, but I have a higher calling than petty social and economic dealings. However, if you promise me now that you will respect our agreement and serve as my power by proxy, then I can ensure that the assassination will happen." Isabella placed the tip of her staff beneath his chin, forcing him to look up at her. "And if you don't… you will know the extent of Solara's wrath."

Phineas pushed the staff from his face with one finger, raising an eyebrow at her. "Promise made," he assured, "though you're going to have to start treating me better if you want this to work. I don't lie well when I'm in cinders, and it doesn't make it particularly easy to kill anyone either. Lack of extremities, see."

"Fine," Isabella muttered, albeit grudgingly. "But don't believe you're quite out of the woods yet, Flynn - your life hangs on your success, and I'm sure you know it."

"Yes, yes I do," he replied in earnest, and he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "This is it, ladies and, ah, gentleman. The long con is about to commence." He held out a hand to Isabella. "I have to ask, though, since we're going to be working in confidence – mind calling me Phineas from this point on? Flynn sounds so cold, and we know that's not like you."

Despite the smirk on his face, Isabella obligingly shook his hand, though she allowed a trickle of uncomfortable heat to travel into his arm if only to prove his point. He flinched, but he didn't pull away. "If you can do this first part right, _Flynn_, then yes, I will call you Phineas. But you have to earn it."

He withdrew his hand and tipped his head to her. "Fair enough, Isabella. But I assure you that disappointment is not to be expected. If there's anything we can pull off without a hitch, it's pulling the wool over people's eyes."

Isabella, for once, hoped that he was actually right about something.


	4. Chapter 4

Jeremy studied the painting in his living room. It was his favorite thing in the whole house, the way the shadows and light danced together. In it the moon shone, the stars twinkled against a deep blue sky. The tall grass swayed gently. Jeremy could almost feel the cool breeze. Each brushstroke was precise and painted with love. Django Brown was truly an artistic genius.

The painting was an oasis of sanity amongst the opulence of the living room, and indeed, the whole house. Statues gilded in gold, the heads of dead animals-his father's trophies- and baubles upon baubles cluttered the living room. A true museum of junk. The perfect example of over indulgence and Jeremy hated every centimeter of it. Everything except his painting had been bought by the money acquired through the deal with Van Stomm. His sister's fate had been tied to that boor's. If Jeremy had had any say in who Suzy would have married, he would have had her marry to someone of a noble breed. Perhaps the Royal Painter, a kind man with a gentle disposition. A miner would have been a better choice; at least they were honorable workers, compared to the -

"Jeremy, there you are! Staring at that doodling like always, I see." His father's voice was unmistakeable. Jeremy had been too deep in thought to notice his father approaching

Jeremy kept his gaze on the picture, he feared losing his composure otherwise. "I find that the painting has a calming effect on me." He tried to keep his voice even, a difficult task considering his previous train of thought, "Is there something you wanted, Father?"

Mr. Johnson stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket, "Ah, yes. You see, I owe some very nice people and I was wondering if-"

"I don't have any money to give you." Jeremy studied the constellations in the painting. It seemed to be a mix of the different skies.

Mr. Johnson glared daggers at his son's back, "Never interrupt me, do you understand?"

A slow nod from the younger Johnson was all he needed for confirmation, "Great. Now, do you mind telling me how you ran out of money?"

Jeremy smirked, "I didn't run out of money. I just said I don't have any to give you." Orion and Ophiuchus seemed to be in a constant battle, "Perhaps, these very nice people can help you with your impulsive streak? What do you think?"

His father pinned his head against the wall, the cold bricks scraped against his face, "Who are you calling impulsive?"

Jeremy breathed deeply, he wasn't about to lose his control. Even if his anger coiled and twisted inside him, he wouldn't lose his control. He was a gentleman, after all. He had the white gloves to prove it. "I doubt I have enough to cover your debts at any rate. You'll have to ask somebody else."

Mr. Johnson's grip slackened, "Ask somebody else. Maybe...maybe Buford...yes, Jeremy, talk to him for me, will you?"

Jeremy twisted around, finally coming face to face with his father. Short, blond hair, and blue eyes dulled by age; rumpled clothes that reeked of uncleanliness. It was like looking into a mirror of a horrible future, "You can't be serious. Father, you want to ask that- that hit man for help? I'd rather you die than to ask anything from him."

"Listen up," Mr. Johnson growled, "I don't want to talk to him. You will do it for me."

Jeremy ran his hand through his hair, "I should think that Suzy would be far more suited to the task."

He instantly regretted saying such thing. He didn't want to put his sister in the position of begging for his father's life.

Mr. Johnson snorted, "Suzy is a woman. I doubt she would understand the complexities of such a delicate matter. Besides," a wicked grin settled on Mr. Johnson's face, "Can you imagine what the brute will ask for a reward?"

Jeremy arched an eyebrow, "Reward?"

Mr. Johnson chuckled, "Although they live together, I doubt the two have ever actually known each other."

Jeremy's face took on a sickly green hue. "You..." He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed to control himself. He slid down the wall and rested his head on his knees.

Breath in.

Surely his sister hadn't?

Breath out.

She and the brute were married by law.

Breath in.

The ceremony at the church had yet to happen.

Breath out.

It didn't count as an official marriage, then.

Breath in.

Right?

Breath out.

Right?

A gentle touch on his shoulders brought him out for his stupor. He lifted his head and saw blue and white clad, his dark-skinned bodyguard. He was also the only friend within the manor.

Jeremy smiled, "Coltrane, you're back."

Coltrane chuckled, "I see you're in one your moods again. Perhaps this," he handed Jeremy a brown bag, "Shall cheer you up."

Jeremy opened the bag. Inside there was a dagger. The sheath was decidedly plain, with only the Eye of Horus as its decoration. He unsheathed it, and examined the family motto, "_Surgam Identidem." Grandfather's dagger._ "Where did you find it?"

Coltrane smiled. "I think you would only get angry if I told you where your father pawned it off."

Jeremy nodded. He finally had his Grandfather's dagger back. After months of searching, it was back where it belonged.

"Say, Jeremy, I think we're going to be late for that play you wanted to see if we don't leave now."

Jeremy stood up and dusted himself, "Yes,I suppose you're right. We have to pick up Van Stomm along the way. I need to have a word with him." They both walked out of the living room.

"Really? That sounds rather unpleasant. So what's the name of the play?" Coltrane asked.

"A Serbian Film."

Coltrane looked confused. "Like a film of dust?"

Jeremy nodded. "Exactly. It's an allegorical play about the struggles of the working class Serbs and the thin film of power that separates them from the oppressive government."

Coltrane tried to suppress a yawn, "Oh, joy. Sounds interesting."

* * *

><p>Thyssen absent-mindedly poured the last of the whisky into a glass, and after a pause, motioned for Thénardier to bring him another. The inn was slightly crowded, but it was growing late enough that most of the drunkards had quietened down somewhat. Naturally 'most of' did not include Thaddeus' underlings, all of whom were quite drunk and were loudly singing along to the gramophone. Thaddeus rolled his eyes and set pen to paper again.<p>

The paper was stiff and crunched under his words, adding to the pleasant crackling of the adjacent fire. Robotically, Thaddeus downed another shot of whisky. He had always had a high alcohol tolerance, and it did little to impede his movements in any way. The gramophone was being loudly kicked into service again, and Thaddeus hoped his men did not break it, because as always, he would be the one to compensate Thénardier.

"_Heute wollen wir ein Liedlein singen… Trinken wollen wir den kühlen Wein…"_

Thaddeus began to think that if he rolled his eyes any more they would become lodged in the back of his head. He removed his cap and wiped his brow. Perhaps he had drunk more than he thought. Pushing the whisky aside, he was about to resume writing when his second-in-command sat down opposite him.

"_Und die Gläser sollen dazu klingen… Denn es muß, es muß geschieden sein__!"_

"… es muß geschieden sein…" hiccupped one of the men, unable to keep in tune with the others.

"Not going to join us sir?" Thor asked.

"No thank you," Thaddeus said, looking up. "No one wants their boss next to them on a night out. I'm only here because the barracks don't have a writing desk."

"Who are you writing to?"

"My wife," Thaddeus explained awkwardly, unused to sharing personal information. "She, eh… This is the last payment I'll send her so she can travel over here."

"Why didn't you come together?"

Thor's inquisitiveness was beginning to annoy Thaddeus slightly, but he continued anyway. "I'm from a fairly aristocratic family Thor."

"_Gib' mir deine Hand, deine weiße Hand…"_

"So are we all," Thor said, gesturing towards his own dueling scars.

"Yes well, aristocratic Protestant families do not tend to like it when their firstborn comes into the house one day and says 'Father, I've fallen in love with a Jew'. They more-or-less forced me over here faster than I

knew what was happening."

"Ah, my apologies sir. I didn't mean to pry too much."

"It's alright," Thaddeus sighed. "When Anna gets here, things will be better. I just worry about what sort of city, what sort of life I'm bringing her into."

"_Leb' wohl, mein Schatz, leb' wohl mein Schatz, Leb' wohl, lebe wohl…"_

"Leb' wohl, mein Scheiße…" sang the out-of-tune man.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm wading through a river of shit," Thaddeus muttered into his whisky.

"Sir?" Thénardier was hovering nearby and Thaddeus instinctively held onto his wallet, because the master of the house was something of a pickpocket. "Your carriage has h'arrived sir."

Thaddeus slid the whisky across the table to Thor and stood up, finishing the touches to his letter and enclosing it, with an ample amount of money, into a thick envelope. Casually, he tossed some coinage at the innkeeper and assumed it was enough, before heading out of The Quiet Woman and into the night. The streets had none of the stagnant continental heat of the day, and Thaddeus disliked his squeaking uniform even more, as it seemed amplified in the cold darkness.

In the cheaply printed novels he was fond of, Thaddeus had often chuckled at the heroes who managed to get knocked out and wake up hours later in the villain's lair. In real life, being knocked out for more than a half-hour often signalled significant brain damage, and unconsciousness was a considerably harder state to induce than popular writers seemed to realise. So when the truncheon cracked across his skull and sent him hurtling onto the cobblestones, when the hood was over his head and when he was bundled into the carriage and repeatedly beaten and kicked, he was conscious the entire time.

He kicked and writhed weakly, but his muffled complaints went ignored. He thrashed wildly as his uniform was taken from him. Quickly, he sensed impersonation as an aim of the robbery, and tried to tear his clothes as they came off, but to no avail. The carriage trundled through the silent city, Thaddeus' struggle completely ignored by the uncaring populace.

Eventually, the carriage came to an abrupt halt, and Thaddeus' hood was torn off.

For a moment, he wondered if he was having an out-of-body experience in his dazed state, before he recognised the figure in his clothes.

"Flynn! I'll have your fucking head for this!"

Phineas raised an eyebrow and stepped down from the carriage, walking away from what he thought of now as a used prop.

"Come back! Look at me you son a whore!"

"Careful now," said an English voice, and Fletcher kicked the Director of Police from the carriage.

As he hit the dirt, Thaddeus began to panic. If he had been allowed to see their faces, he knew he did not have long. Scrambling among the dirt, he came to a stone floor, and recognised his surroundings – they were at the canal, more-or-less deserted at this time. He turned over, looking for Phineas, but his impersonator was nowhere to be found. There was only Fletcher.

"Where's Netley?" Thaddeus choked. "Where's my driver?"

"All over the place," Ferb said. "He put up a fight."

Fletcher suddenly grabbed Thaddeus' bound legs despite the thrashing, and slammed a chain shut around them both.

"Fletcher, I'll give you money, titles… If Flynn goes down, you don't have to go too, we can negotiate!"

Ferb's face revealed Thaddeus' pleas pointless – the man was completely expressionless, showing as much interest as a man would in any everyday activity, like tying his shoelaces. This terrified Thaddeus more than anything he had ever seen in his life.

"I like having the chance to talk," the Englishman said suddenly. "I don't often have the opportunity. Phineas is rather squeamish, did you know that? He likes to pretend he doesn't know what's going on, like when I killed your driver. That's my new job incidentally. Driver. John Charles Netley. My new identity."

Thaddeus started to wriggle away, but Ferb's boot came crashing down on his chest, pinning him while his arms were attached to a similar chain.

"I never understood all the fuss people make about morals and such," Ferb continued. "They're just made up. Phineas has his little guidelines. Why though? People are just things, after all. You fuck them, then you fuck them over."

"My wife," said Thaddeus, eerily calm. "I had a letter."

Ferb casually produced the envelope. "I'll see that it gets sent."

Thaddeus nodded numbly.

"What happens now?" The Prussian croaked.

With sudden vicious strength, Ferb kicked the bound man into the canal, the chains following quickly after, attached to large blocks of stone. Thaddeus hit the water first, but it was the stones that sank swiftly, pulling at the splashing, desperate man. There was no more time for words – Thaddeus fought to keep afloat as the water lapped at his eyes and invaded his throat.

"After all," said Ferb. "If it doesn't get sent, then she won't stick her head up."

Primal rage born of genuine care for his wife flashed in Thaddeus eyes, rolling in desperation. It was too late however, and he sank. The last thing he saw before the water turned black was Ferb Fletcher's bored expression as he gazed down after his victim.

* * *

><p>It had been a long time since he'd entered a city with walls. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed the feeling, but as the Major moved through the city he realized just how much he had been missing.<p>

It was not that the walls made him feel safe- only a knife in hand, a gun over his shoulder, and Her in his mind made him feel any bit safe- but rather that the walls made the city like a cage for the faithless. He had met so many blasphemers even in his first few minutes in the city, but he had spared them. They were not the problem, he had thought, the blame fell on the Cult whose task was to instruct the people in Her way. Of course, the Cult had failed their pupils- which simply meant that the Cult had to be purged and restarted.

The Cult was supposed to serve Her needs- Her will to be entertained by their actions. Instead they went about their daily business, wasting the life She had given them only to satisfy their own needs. Some may have called it selfish, but who were they to judge the Supreme Being? And it was not like they themselves were not selfish too, especially here. The sheer amount of befoulment of Her will made him nearly dry heave with every step he took. He was almost sorry he didn't, because he was sure seeing him drop to his knees and spill his guts in the middle of the street would at least slightly amuse Her, and here She deserved whatever amusement She could gain.

It took him a few more minutes to finally reach where the professor She'd specified lived, and when he arrived he rapped on the door with one of his immense fists three times before standing and waiting. He was about to knock again when a scrawny man opened up the door, looking German in origin. "What do you want?" the man asked, and Monogram frowned at his lack of manners.

"Doctor Heinz Doofenshmirtz?" he asked, his voice level.

"It's 'Professor'. Is there... something you need?" the man replied tentatively, seemingly frightened by the old giant that stood at his doorstep. Monogram scoffed inwardly. Surely this could not be the man She spoke of? What could he possibly offer to Her in return for the fulfillment of his wish?

He pushed Heinz inside with little resistance and entered on his own accord, "I shall be staying here for the time being."

Heinz was at a loss for words as the burly old man spoke. This brute thought he could step in and take over a complete stranger's home? He thought wrong. "Under whose authority?" he asked hotly, his hand slipping into the testing apron he hadn't removed and quietly drawing his personal dagger out from it. He was not one who usually carried a weapon, but he had been forced to learn after some trying times in the last city he'd inhabited. He knew a bit about blade work even in his old age, and merely hoped that the intruder knew less if push should come to shove.

Monogram turned back to answer, his mouth opening, but another voice came from behind him, "Mine." Monogram whipped around and both men watched as a young woman, still clad in slippers but in a simple red-orange dress. She twirled around once, the skirt rising and falling as she did so, "What do you think, Major? I quite like it, personally. But then again... I guess I can't say 'personally', can I?"

Monogram looked at the woman for a split second before realization dawned on him and he dropped to his knees before the woman, "My Lady."

She smiled as he did so, "Ah Frank, how I missed you. Now get up so you can speak to your new friend." The Major stood to full height, his slightly wrinkled and scarred face alight with interest, and She continued, "Perhaps we should discuss this in the kitchen. I sensed your arrival and thought it was only fair to prepare a feast in my honor."

Monogram smiled as he followed Her into Heinz's kitchen, seeing the pieces of a barrel strewn about. "At least the little man was pious enough to provide you with a meal, my lady," he gestured to the half-eaten food on the table.

She smiled as Heinz nearly dry heaved behind the two, "Yes. I should thank him for that, I believe."

Heinz recovered as quickly as he could, "No... No problem, my Lady..."

She and Monogram sat down and dug in without a second thought.

* * *

><p>The importance of the matter was underlined by Baljeet's agitation. "I do not care what the guards say! There is a half kilo missing!<strong>"<strong>

Van Stomm sighed patiently. "You know, 'Jeet, it could be just an accounting error on the supplier's end."

The attempted appeasement failed utterly, as Buford had known it would. It had really been more for his own benefit than the Maharajah's anyway.

"Do not try to mollify me, Buford," Baljeet gritted, "it was accounted for on arrival. Someone has robbed us." His voice rose to an annoying screech. "Do you know how much a half kilo of pure opium resin is worth? And as laudanum it is worth even more! No, someone is robbing us!"

Buford sighed, knowing there was no way out of it. "All right, I'll look into it myself."

Those words had the hoped-for effect. Baljeet calmed down visibly and righted his turban, which had skewed to the left in his agitation. "See that you do, old friend, and let me know when you have decided on a culprit. We cannot allow anyone to think for even a moment that we can be trifled with. Why, imagine what would happen to us if that new chief of police... what was his name, Tyson?"

"Thyssen."

"Yes, what would happen to us if Thyssen did not respect us... and I cannot even begin to imagine what he might try against your darling Susan! I shudder at the thought." _Yes, indeed, shudder in anticipation at hearing her screams as she is questioned; I hear Thyssen's assistants are very handy with the rack._

Baljeet was wise enough to keep his thoughts to himself. He loathed Suzy as much as he trusted Buford; perhaps more. Unfortunately, there was no way of getting rid of her, not while the wall of meat that was his second in command was so disgustingly infatuated with her. Hopefully Buford would tire of her sooner rather than later and she could be disposed of.

He turned back to his papers and studied the situation more dispassionately, Buford taking the chair across the desk.

The warehouses had not been broken into, that much was clear. Nothing was out of place or obviously wrong, but a half kilo of Golden Punjabi was missing from one of the crates. It had been there three months ago, when the last batch of laudanum had been made up. There had been no recent sales of smoking pellets - so where had the opium gone?

Everything pointed to it being an inside job. The problem was figuring out who had the sticky fingers. Buford figured it would be a short while before the culprit revealed himself. That much opium was both too much for one person to consume alone, and worth a small fortune. The thief would either be absent long enough to arouse suspicion, or be flaunting sudden wealth. Neither of those was the smart thing to do - but then again, stealing from the Maharajah wasn't going to win anyone a prize for intelligent thinking.

Behind the heavy half-open door, Suzy listened and laughed silently to herself.


End file.
